Brotherly Love
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Al and Matt were raised as adopted brothers. They were best friends who did everything together. But when Matt leaves for boarding-school, Al begins to realize the difference between "brotherly love" and something more. As Al and Matt stumble through adolescence, they begin to realize that you don't always get to choose who you fall in love with. (FACE Family :)
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:**_** Hetalia: Axis Powers **_– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

**WARNING:**This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Please excuse the liberties I've taken with some character names &amp; relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

DON'T drink underage.

For those of you who would prefer to read _Brotherly Love_ in Chinese, please visit the link on my Profile homepage.

Thank-you and best wishes to the lovely and talented translator, The eleventh moon :D

**CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):**

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

AMERICA — Alfred F. (Jones) Kirkland-Bonnefoi

CANADA — Mathew (Williams) Kirkland-Bonnefoi

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

SCOTLAND — Allistor (Scottie) Kirkland

WALES — Dylan Kirkland

NETHERLANDS — Lars Van den Berg

LATVIA — Raivis Galante

DENMARK — Mikkel Densen

NORWAY — Bjørn Thomassen

POLAND — Feliks Lukasiewicz

LITHUANIA — Toris Laurinaitis

ICELAND — Sigurour Thomassen

FINLAND — Tino Väinämöinen

SWEDEN — Berwald Oxenstierna

ESTONIA — Eduard von Bock

HUNGARY — Elizabeta Hédervàry

BELGIUM — Laura Van den Berg

LIECHTENSTEIN — Eva Vogel

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein

SWITZERLAND — Basch Zwingli

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

AUSTRALIA — Jett (unknown surname)

NEW ZEALAND — Kaelin (unknown surname)

RUSSIA — Unnamed (Ivan Braginsky)

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**NEW YORK CITY 2014**

F_rancis_!" Arthur yelled, green eyes wide in shock. He had dropped the brown-paper bag in his hands; milk and sticky egg yolk spilled on the hardwood floor. He and his French lover had only left for an hour to run some errands; the boys had still been sleeping so Arthur had left them a note: BE BACK IN AN HOUR. And yes, they were early; yes the market had been closed, but he hadn't expected to return to them—

"Francis, could you come here please—_now_?!"

"What is it, cher?" said the Frenchman, hurrying in. "What's wrong—" He stopped beside the Englishman; a wine bottle fell from his hand, but fortunately didn't break. He stared at his two sons, tangled in each other's naked, sweaty limbs on the couch: Al leaning over Matt; Matt's face buried in a pillow. Both young, teenage bodies were flushed; lips swollen. Al was panting. "W-what are you—?" Francis gaped at them. "You can't be— but you— you're—"

"_Brothers_!" Arthur snapped. In panic he surged forward and yanked Al off of Matt, provoking a yelp. Then he pulled the pillow from Matt's grasp and chucked it forcefully at Al. "Adopted or not, you're still brothers. You can't be doing this. I mean... I just can't believe you're doing _this_."

Francis covered his mouth; recovering slightly. Quietly, he said: "You're seventeen-years-old; we've raised you together for seventeen years. How long have you been—?"

Al looked guiltily at Matt. Matt swallowed.


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:**_** Hetalia: Axis Powers **_– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**ONE**

**NEW YORK CITY **

**MARCH 2010**

Al, what're you doing?" asked Matt sleepily. He felt a shiver of cold as Al pulled back the big duvet and crawled into bed beside him; then he felt his brother's body-heat, snuggled close. Closing his eyes, he yawned around a grin, and said: "Bet you're regretting watching that film now, aren't you? You scared?"

"No," Al denied, squeezing Matt. "'Course not. I'm just cold," he said cavalierly. Outside, it was snowing. "I'm just saving _you _the embarrassment of asking me to sleep with you. Cause, you know, you're probably scared."

Matt sighed, already half-asleep. "Ghosts don't scare me, Al."

"Yeah, me neither."

* * *

This is the third time I've called you. I won't say it again!" called Arthur, shaking them roughly. "Get up or you'll be late for school! And I'm _not_ driving you."

"_No_," Al moaned groggily. "I'm hibernating."

Frustrated, Arthur ripped the blankets off his lazy, teenage sons. "C'mon, Mathew. It's time to get up."

Yawning in a cat-like fashion, Matt nodded. "Okay, Dad. I'm coming. Al— leggo." Al hugged Matt's waist, pretending to be asleep; but nobody was that strong while asleep. "Al—"

"Alfred, stop fooling around and _get up_!" Arthur snapped, prying Matt free. "Damn kids," he muttered as he left. "Should've never let them watch that bloody film. Stayed up too late; now they'll miss class. All my fault."

Sluggishly Matt showered and brushed his teeth, then pulled his favourite red hoodie on over his t-shirt and jeans; he finger-combed his pale-blonde curls as he descended the stairs into the sweet-smelling kitchen.

"Bonjour, chéri," said Francis cheerfully. "Sleep well? I've made French toast, your favourite," he winked, kissing his son's temple as he laid a plate of delicious toast in front of him. Matt's stomach growled; the spicy-sweet aroma of sugar and cinnamon bombarded him, and he smothered the whole pastry with maple syrup.

"Merci, Papa," he said, licking his fingers.

"You shouldn't be feeding them sweets for breakfast," Arthur chastised, eyeing Matt's plate. He was sitting at the table's head, reading the newspaper. "They need a good English breakfast, not dessert. They'll fall asleep in class."

Francis leaned over his lover's back, pressing his lips to Arthur's cheek. "They'll fall asleep anyway because _you_ let them stay up too late. Let me worry about the food, cher."

"Ugh. Can you _not_ fondle each other in front of Mattie and I?" groaned Al, walking in. Melodramatically he clutched Matt's shoulders, and said: "_We're impressionable_!"

"Alfred, that's enough. Sit down and eat," said Arthur. Francis smiled. "By the way, have either of you given any thought to which high-school you want to go to? You'll need to register early for the better ones."

"Yes, I have," said Al, chewing toast. "I've picked the best one for us, Matt. It's totally local, so we won't have to be driven to school like kids, and it's only two blocks from the McDonalds _and_ the arcade. Plus, Lovino already goes there and Feliciano's going to go there too."

Arthur sighed. "Please tell me you've given at least _some_ thought to academics?"

Al frowned. "I'm thirteen," he said, as if it were obvious. "I don't give a shit about academics, right Mattie?"

"Actually," Matt said, speaking up; trying to get his parents' attention, "I wanted to talk to you about—"

"Bloody-hell, is that the time?!" Arthur leapt up. "Fu—_fudge_," he cursed, grabbing his coat and car-keys. "C'mon boys, swallow faster. You're going to be late!"

* * *

Does your idiot brother know?" asked Lovino. He was a dark-haired Italian boy, whose high-school lunch period was the same as Matt's middle-school one; his younger brother, Feliciano, was in Al's class.

"No," Matt shook his head. "He's going to flip-shit when I tell him," he said, picking at his lunch. They had chosen a small café, which was a mutual distance between their schools; it served delicious pastries and sandwiches, but Matt wasn't hungry. In fact, he felt somewhat sick. "I heard Feliciano's going to your school. Al wants to go too."

"Yeah, I guess." The prospect of his little brother joining him in high-school didn't seem to thrill Lovino. He shrugged: "Feliciano's got a crush on one of the seniors, that's why he wants to go there. Some German bastardo; his older brother goes to university with my cousin, Antonio."

"Is Antonio your cousin? I thought he was just a friend of the family," said Matt.

"Well, I think we have the same great-nonno or something. I just found out." He waved impassively. "But it's pretty distant—once or twice removed or some shit—you know? It's not like I'm fucking my first-cousin."

Matt cocked an eyebrow slyly. "_Are _you fucking him?"

Lovino was older than Matt, but still dangerously young for a third-year university student. Lovino, however, didn't seem concerned with the age-gap; rather, he seemed more flustered about the closet-relationship in general. "It's not like you're probably thinking," he defended himself, blushing fiercely; temper rising. "We just _occasionally_ fool around a bit. It's nothing illegal or anything; I know he's a lot older than me _and_ he's a total bastardo. It's just— Oh, fuck it," he growled. Matt was snickering, hiding a grin behind his teacup. "Pretend I didn't say anything, okay? You're just a kid. Al got scared of that film I lent you, didn't he?" he poked, trying desperately to change the subject.

Matt shrugged. "Yeah, maybe a little. But it doesn't change the fact that you're fucking your _cousin_!"

"Fuck off, Mattie! I told you: He's not a _close_ cousin so it doesn't count!"

Matt was still laughing when he returned to school. He met Al and Feliciano in the hallway outside of his classroom, on their way to third-period lunch. "What's up, Mattie?" Al asked, noting his brother's delight.

Matt glanced skeptically at Feliciano, who cocked his sepia-brown head curiously; eyes smiling. "I'll tell you later," he said to Al.

* * *

Uncle Scottie, what're you doing here?"

Allistor was a big, redheaded man leaning against his beat-up car in the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. He grinned when he saw his two adopted nephews, and crushed the butt into the pavement. "Came to pick you up from school, as per your Da's request. He's a bit busy—"

"He's fucking Papa, isn't he?" asked Al flatly. He eyed Allistor: "We're thirteen, Scottie, we're not stupid."

Allistor placed a strong hand on each boy's blonde head. "No. You're a mouthy little bugger, but not stupid." He smiled in approval and paraded them into the car's backseat. "C'mon, what'd you brats want for supper? It's on Uncle Dylan," he added, nodding to the passenger-seat. Dylan rolled his pale-green eyes.

The foursome ended up at a cheap fifties-style diner with plastic booths and black-light posters. Allistor was told-off twice for smoking indoors before he conceded, grumbling loudly; and Dylan instantly regretted giving Matt a quarter when he gave it to Al, who ran to the jukebox. The boys ordered hamburgers, french-fries, and big cherry-topped milkshakes, which they gobbled up greedily; Arthur and Francis didn't like them eating _American junk-food_. They laughed and argued with their British uncles—Arthur's brothers (he had four, including the Irish twins, of which he was the second-youngest)—until Al snorted milkshake.

"You're a damn cheeky little bugger, aren't you?" said Allistor. Al grinned impishly, taking a serviette from Dylan. "Just what State did my wee brother and his _roommate_," Allistor mocked, making air-quotes, "get you from? I bet it was somewhere south; they're all cracked down there, aren't they? And you," he said, eyeing Matt. "You were born in Canada, weren't you?"

Matt nodded. "That's what I'm told."

After the diner, the Brits took the boys to a nearby bar. Al and Matt munched on onion rings and Cola-Cola while Allistor and Dylan ordered drink after drink, and told mildly inappropriate stories about their childhood, most of which involved Arthur. "Your Da was a wild fucking kid," Allistor smirked. "He ever tell you he was in a _band_?"—again with the air-quotes. "Remember that phase, Dylan? Then he met that pansy-ass Frenchie and moved here. Truth be told, I hate this goddamned city— it's too loud!" he practically shouted.

It was half-past ten when Allistor and Dylan dropped the boys off at home. "Ay Artie! Ay Frenchie!" Allistor greeted them, wheeling happily. He patted his younger brother's wheat-blonde head and whispered loudly: "They're good lads, both of 'em. Don't fuck 'em up, aye?"

"Bloody wanker. I knew I shouldn't have asked them to get the boys," said Arthur after they left. He retreated into the parlour, where Francis was goading Al into doing his homework, and grabbed his needlework; it soothed him. An hour later Matt returned from his bedroom, looking sheepish. "Mathew? Are you alright, love?"

Matt clenched a folder in his white-knuckled hands. "I've decided where I want to go to high-school," he said, attracting everyone's attention.

Al's head immediately shot up, and he dropped his pencil. "_What_? What'd you mean you've decided? You're going to the same high-school as me, aren't you?"

"Err... well, I..." Matt paused. "No, Al. I'm not. I want to go to school in Canada. There's an English-French school in Ottawa that I've been reading about; it's a boarding-school," he added softly, handing Arthur the folder. "I've already contacted the school's administrative office and they said, if I apply, I'm guaranteed to be accepted. It's a little expensive— it's a private school. But I _really_ want to go."

Al glared at Matt, feeling betrayed. Then he stood up and left without a word, his homework forgotten; they heard him stomp up the stairs, and, seconds later, his bedroom door slammed shut. Arthur and Francis exchanged a concerned look, then faced Matt. "Why haven't you said anything about this before?" Arthur asked.

"Because I didn't think you would let me go. And I was going to go to Lovino's school with Al, but then I read about it, and..." Matt shrugged. "It made me realize how much I want to go _there_"—he nodded to the folder in Arthur's hand. "You don't have to decide now," he hurried. "Just consider it, okay?"

"Well, I don't think there's much else to consider," he said, standing. Kindly, he smiled. "Mathew, if you want to go to this school—and you've already been accepted—then I don't have any objections. It's not as if we can't afford it. Honesty, I'm proud of the initiative you've taken. I think you'll do well at boarding-school, even if it is French."

"Half-French," said Francis. "I can't believe mon petit bébé wants to leave us already." He wrapped his arms around Matt and squeezed him affectionately. "But I agree. If this is really what you want then of course you can go."

"You'll have to console your brother," Arthur added, only half-joking. "Alfred is going to miss you, Mathew."

Francis kissed Matt's head. "We all will, chéri."


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER: _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ — Hidekaz Himaruya  
**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**TWO**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**SEPTEMBER 2010**

How's the gay-school?" Al mocked. The Canadian high-school that Matt had chosen was an all-boys boarding-school in Ottawa, which taught lessons in English and French; Al had chosen a co-ed public school within walking distance of home. "Having fun wearing a _blazer_ every day? Has your roommate tried to kiss you yet?"

"Fuck off, Al. It's not like that," said Matt's voice. "I really like it here. It's a beautiful city. When the Rideau Canal freezes over we're going ice-skating, and I've already joined the hockey-team. You'd love the cafeteria, its fully catered; and we can get ice-cream 24/7. I like the lessons too, they're different from—"

"Yeah, that's great," Al interrupted. "I'm glad you like it." He clenched his cell-phone tightly, hoping that his voice didn't betray his unease. He felt anxious, like he had when they'd left Matt in Ottawa four weeks ago. Arthur had smiled proudly, not wanting to embarrass his fourteen-year-old son; but, unperturbed, Francis had gushed over Matt, hugging him and relaying advice until Arthur pulled him off. Then it was Al's turn: "See you later," he said, clenching his brother's hand. That's it—that's all he had said. Irrationally he blamed Canada, Matt's birth-place. He hated Matt's school; resented Matt for choosing it over New York. But mostly Al hadn't wanted his brother to see him cry. He had waited until he was home, alone in Matt's empty bedroom, and then he had sobbed.

"—my roommate, he's Dutch. He told me that— Al? Are you listening to me?"

Al blinked. "Yeah, sorry. Hey I've got to go, Mattie. I'll call you later, okay?"

"O-oh, okay," said Matt. He sounded disappointed. "Eh, why don't you come visit me at Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, sure. Sounds good," said Al, and hung up. He leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling—decorated with posters of bands that Matt hated. He swallowed. When Francis knocked on the door, calling Al down for supper, he ignored him. When Arthur hammered on the door, Al snapped: "I'm not hungry!" And eventually he fell asleep.

* * *

I'm worried about him," said Arthur, clearing the table. "He hasn't refused a meal since— actually, I don't think he's _ever_ refused a meal. Do you think he's sick?"

"Heartsick, maybe," said Francis, loading the dishwasher. "He misses Mathieu. It's hard for him to be alone now, since they've always been together. But he'll be alright, it's only been a month."

"Yes, well... I don't like his attitude."

Francis snorted. "Alfred has _always _had attitude; he's always been Mathieu's protector. Do you remember when they were young and you asked them both what they wanted to be when they grew-up? Mathieu said a hockey-player, and Alfred said a superhero." Francis smiled. "Alfred got mad and insisted that Mathieu be his sidekick, and, to avoid an argument, Mathieu agreed. Maybe it's a good thing that they're finally spending some time apart," he said. "They're not children anymore; they can't rely on each other—or us—forever."

Arthur sighed. "Yes, I suppose. I just hope Alfred realizes that before he does something stupid."

"Like join a band?"

* * *

**OTTAWA**

Was that your brother on the phone? Is he coming up for Thanksgiving?" asked Lars. He was a big, blonde Dutch boy, who—coincidentally—was related to Feliciano's German crush, and had a sister attending Al's school in New York.

"Yes, I think so," said Matt. "But we didn't really get to talk about it. He had to go."

"You were talking the whole time I was gone, for almost two hours," said Lars, removing his jacket. "And you barely got a chance to ask him? What the heck were you talking about, _him_? He must've had a lot to tell you— or he's a colossal attention-whore. My cousin Gilbert's like that," he said, straight-faced.

"No, Al just likes to talk. I don't even think he knows what he's saying half the time. He just likes the sound of his own voice. He likes to tell stories; sometimes they're true, sometimes they're not, and— _what_?"

Lars leant down toward Matt, head cocked. So close, Matt could see the roots of his ash-blonde hair, the light reflected in his sage-green eyes, and the indent of a pale scar on his forehead. Lars smiled. "You miss him, don't you? I miss my siblings too, my little sister and brother. But it's okay— now I've got you," he said. The words were teasing, but Lars' tone was serious; Matt couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He didn't know how to respond.

Fortunately he didn't have to: KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Hiya Matt, Lars. A bunch of us are going out to play road-hockey," said Raivis, a nervous Latvian boy whose room was next door. "Want to play? Not to pressure you, but if you don't play the teams won't be even."

* * *

I call Mattie!" yelled Mikkel, a loud-mouthed Dane. He and his Norwegian roommate, Bjørn, were twelfth-graders; the young silver-blonde boy clutching Bjørn's leg, however, was not.

"What's with the rug-rat?" asked Feliks, hands planted on his cocked hips. He was a cheerful, if not slightly obnoxious, eleventh-grade Pole, who infuriated his considerate Lithuanian roommate, Toris.

"Sigurour is my younger half-brother, I'm babysitting," said Bjørn, placing an indifferent yet protective hand on the boy's head. "Here," he said, handing Sigurour his cell-phone. "Just sit over there and play games, okay?"

"Alright, did anyone hear me? I said: I call Mattie!" Mikkel repeated. Self-importantly, he pointed to each of them. "That makes my team: Matt, Bjørn, Raivis, and Tino— Hey! Berwald let go of Tino, he's on _my_ team."

Tino was a small, pale-eyed Finnish boy, and Berwald was a tall, stern-faced Swede. They shared a dorm-room across the hall from Matt's, both polite and unobtrusive, and—if gossip was true—liked to fuck each other at night. Matt didn't necessarily believe such rumours—not that it was any of _his_ business—but the Swedish boy's hands did spend quite a lot of time clutching the smaller Finn.

"Yes, yes. We're coming," said Berwald stoically, his hand unabashedly on Tino's shoulder. Tino was a grade younger than Berwald, and rather bashful.

"So that means I get: Berwald, Eduard, Lars, and Toris," said Feliks cockily, as self-proclaimed team-leader.

"Hey, I've got an idea," said Toris helpfully. "Since we're all originally from somewhere else, why don't we call each other by our nationalities for the game? Like, I'll be Lithuania. Feliks will be Poland—"

"Yes, we get it. I'm Estonia," said Eduard in proof.

"What about you, Lars? Do you want to be Holland or Netherlands? And Matt, are you Canada or America?"

Matt flinched, but he didn't know why. It was a legitimate question since Matt had duel-citizenship; and his brother was American— Something painful tugged at his heart; then, in a second, it was gone. _I'm just homesick_, he thought. _I just miss my family._ "I'll be Canada," he decided. "Let's play."

* * *

**NEW YORK CITY**

Pass it here, Al! No— pass the goddamned ball! _Fuck_!" Lovino cursed. "That's a foul, you bastardo!"

Al picked himself up off the field, offering a hand to Feliciano. "This blows. I thought you guys said we were going to play football."

"This _is_ football," said Lovino, picking up—what was obviously, in Al's thinking—a soccer ball.

"What's the problem boys?" asked Elizabeta, smiling sweetly. She jogged over, planting her hands on rather shapely hips. "Is there a problem?"

Al exchanged a glance with the Italian brothers, both of whom shook their heads. Eliza might've been a girl, but she was also a senior, and also terrifying. Behind her, Laura grinned and high-fived sweet-tempered Eva, and Al felt himself deflate. They were losing at a sport to three girls, one of whom was in middle-school. "Fuck!" Al cursed. "I can't believe I let you talk me into—"

"Germany!" yelled Feliciano suddenly. He leapt up and ran toward the advancing blonde, throwing himself into the big senior's strong arms. Ludwig caught Feliciano in reflex, and then blushed when the Italian kissed both of his cheeks in greeting. It was funny to see the disciplined soccer team's captain flustered. "Do you want to play with us? Oh, please play with us, Germany! Play football with us— please, please Germany? Football!"

"What's wrong, Feliciano? Are you afraid of losing to girls?" Laura teased.

"No." Naively, Feliciano smiled. "I just want to play with Germany."

Ludwig sighed. "Yes, alright. I'll play. Roderich?"

"No, I have other things to do," said Roderich curtly. He touched his glasses, re-adjusted his scarf, and then left without further explanation. Al looked at Laura, who rolled her eyes in dismissal; but Eliza watched Roderich's retreat longingly. It was no secret—to everyone except thick-headed Roderich—that Eliza had a huge crush on him.

But Al didn't care. "Alright," he clapped his hands together. "My team will be: Lovino, Laura, Eva—"

"Not Eva," said a thin blonde. Basch was Eva's older stepbrother and he was very protective of his cute, eleven-year-old sister. He disapproved of her playing with high-school students, even though Laura used to babysit her, and showed that disapproval by glaring suspiciously at them. "Come on, Eva. We're leaving now."

_What a douche_, Al thought, but he would never say it aloud—Basch's xenophobic nature scared the shit out of Al. Eva, however, disagreed. She idolized her strong, independent stepbrother, and obediently followed him.

"Whatever," Al disregarded. He addressed his teammates: "As I was saying. My team will be Lovino, Laura, Mattie—" He stopped, heart sinking. A short silence stretched before Al tried to laugh it off, but failed. "Habit," he said, forcing a grin. To the others' credit, nobody teased him; they knew how much he missed his brother. "Anyway," Al said, stealing the ball from Lovino. "Let's just fucking play."


	4. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER: _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ — Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**THREE**

It started slow. Al missed Matt and Matt missed Al—innocent enough. Especially for two boys who had spent the first fourteen years of their lives together, inseparable. They had grown up in the same house, after all, slept in the same bed; shared the same likes and dislikes, the same secrets and fears. They knew each other inside-and-out; not inappropriately at all, just familiarly. Arthur and Francis had adopted them simultaneously; they had been born in different places, but they had been raised as brothers. And who wouldn't miss their only brother?

* * *

**OTTAWA**

**OCTOBER 2010**

In October Al took the bus from New York City to Ottawa to spend Canadian Thanksgiving with Matt, and, since his arrival, the brothers had spent every waking—and sleeping—minute together. With special permission from the Headmaster, Matt took Al everywhere. He gave him a campus-tour and introduced him to the other boys, and then a group of them went uptown to play lacrosse with a rival school. They ate fast-food and crashed in the dormitory lounge to watch a marathon of bad films. It took less than twenty-four hours for the other boys to start making jokes, calling them Siamese-twins and such: "joined at the hip"—"never apart"—"can't tell one from the other". Lars cleared out to give the brothers some privacy, which they appreciated. He crashed in Mikkel and Bjørn's room for the weekend.

Perhaps if he hadn't left, an awkward situation wouldn't have presented itself—

* * *

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. "Hey, Matt? You'd better hurry if you want a shower," said Toris from the hallway. "Mikkel took a suspiciously long shower and the hot water's almost gone; you might get five minutes out of it."

"Oh fuck," said Matt, crawling out of bed. Al groaned. Both boys were filthy. Neither of them had showered yesterday after playing lacrosse, both too exhausted. They had decided to spend the night eating sweets and watching television, which hadn't helped, assuming that they could shower today. "Fucking Mikkel," Matt muttered unhappily.

"Wait, where're you going?" asked Al, sitting up.

Matt grabbed a black valise and a towel from his top drawer and headed for the door. "To shower, of course."

"But what about me? I need a shower too— _ouch_!" Al tumbled out of bed and face-planted on the floor. Then he leapt up, grabbing his satchel, and followed Matt out.

Matt stopped in the dorm's washroom. "What are you doing?" he asked, watching as Al started to undress. "Didn't you hear Toris? There's only enough hot water left for one— _me_."

"_Huh_? But I'm your guest," Al countered, pulling off his t-shirt. "Besides, that big Swedish guy tackled me when we were playing yesterday; I need a shower more than you do."

"Piss-off, it's _my_ dorm," said Matt, inching toward the shower stall.

"Well... look there's two stalls," Al pointed. "We'll both just have a quick two-minute shower, okay?"

Al headed for the second stall, but Matt grabbed his forearm. "No, you can't use that one." Al lifted an eyebrow in question, prompting Matt to say: "Trust me, you don't _want_ to use that one. It's an all-boys school, use your imagination." Al frowned; then realization dawned on him. His mouth formed a silent O of agreement.

"Well then, we'll just have to shower together," Al said, moving into the safe—clean—shower.

Matt gaped at him. "_What_? Don't you think that's just a little... weird."

Al shrugged. "Maybe... a little," he agreed. "But, whatever, I've seen you naked loads of times, Mattie."

"Yeah, but not since I was ten!" Matt hissed.

"And what? You've changed so much since then?" Al joked. "Seriously, you're making a bigger deal than it needs to be. Guys use public showers at the gym, right?"

Matt stared at him. "Mon Dieu, you're actually serious."

Al ignored him and removed his pajamas, tossing them aside. In only his boxer-shorts he climbed into the shower stall, and threw a glance over his shoulder. "If you're not getting in then I'm taking all the hot water for myself," he said casually. Matt stepped forward, then stopped; calling a bluff that didn't exist. Al sighed. "It's not like we're going to look at each other, not below the waist anyway. Don't look so fucking scared, it's me— your brother."

Finally Matt surrendered: "Fine!" he huffed. Glancing quickly from right-to-left, to ensure nobody saw them, he pulled off his clothes and climbed into the shower stall beside Al. Al pulled the curtain closed and inadvertently eyed his brother's slim waist. "Okay, we'll just... be quick." Matt flushed.

Matt turned the tap and a burst of cold water sprayed down on Al. He barely had time to register the ice-cold, however, before it grew warm—then hot.

Al removed his boxers and grabbed for the shampoo bottle. "Sorry," he said, brushing Matt's shoulder; his brother's pale skin was exceptionally soft. Al lathered scented soap into his wheat-blonde hair and tried not to think about it, consciously keeping his eyes on the back-wall. But when steam began to fill the stall, Al found that he had a hard time keeping his eyes focused. It twisted around Matt's young, willowy body. His brother leant back his head and let slippery curls cascade down his neck; his hair looked silky, making Al want to touch it. It was then that Al felt something stir in his stomach, and suddenly hewas _very_ aware that he and Matt were not, strictly-speaking, related by blood. _Why is my heart racing_? he thought, feeling embarrassed. _Why is my body_— _Oh fuck_! he panicked. He forced himself to think of something cold; something revolting—like his fathers making-out—but it didn't work. His body was young and virile and hungry. He had to get himself under control before the hot water ran out; before Matt turned around and saw his brother's cock. Fortunately, and unlike Al, Matt kept his promise and remained facing the back-wall. _Fuck_, Al cursed himself. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_—

Al knocked over the shampoo bottle; it fell from the shelf and hit Matt. "_Ouch_, Al—?"

"S-sorry!" Al stuttered.

In reflex he knelt down to get the bottle and accidentally came into contact with his brother's smooth thigh. Matt panicked and slipped back: "Al, what're you doing?! I thought you—_ Oh_." His eyes met Al's, blushing furiously.

Al tried to shield himself, but the shower stall was small. "S-sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Suddenly the water turned cold; ice-cold. Forgetting themselves, Al and Matt both shrieked and clambered to get out. Matt quickly turned off the tap, and Al handed him a towel, his head turned away in shame.

* * *

They didn't talk about it. Or Al's inadvertent _episode_—"it was the heat," thought Matt; "it was hormones," thought Al. And they certainly didn't tell anyone else; it was their secret—the first of many.

* * *

Al, what are you doing?" said Matt, sounding slightly exasperated. "That's Lars' bed."

"Yeah, but he's not here. So I thought I'd just—"

Matt threw a pillow that hit Al in the face. "Just get in," he said, pulling back his bed-sheets.

Al hesitated. "Are you sure? I don't think Lars would mind if I slept here." Matt frowned at him, unimpressed by Al's charade. Slowly Al conceded and crawled into the single-bed, trying to keep his distance from Matt.

"Oh, pour l'amour de merde," Matt muttered, moving closer to Al. He rested his head between Al's shoulder-blades, closed his eyes, and said: "Idiot."

* * *

Mattie, you decent?" Lars called. He opened the dorm-room door and poked his head in. His bed was unwrinkled; his side of the room untouched, perfectly clean. Matt's side—usually tidy—was a mess of stars-and-stripes. Al's big satchel had been dumped, spilling blue boxer-shorts and _Captain America_ comics. Lars dodged the chaos, inwardly cringing, and moved to his dresser to get fresh clothes. In passing he glanced at Matt's bed: Al was lying on his back, open-mouthed and snoring, with his arm stretched out; Matt's head was resting on Al's shoulder, arm flung over Al's chest. Both were fast asleep, breathing softly. Matt's long eyelashes quivered; he was dreaming. He looked so peaceful, Lars thought, smiling unguardedly. _S__o cute_.

Suddenly Al opened his eyes. "Lars?" he said, frowning sleepily. "Are you... watching us sleep?"

"No," Lars said, collecting his clothes. _I was only watching Matt_. Then he left.


	5. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER: _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ — Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**FOUR**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**DECEMBER 2010**

You know your roommate watches you sleep?" Al said at breakfast. He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Francis frowned, handing Al a serviette. He glanced curiously between his sons, but didn't interrupt.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure he does," he said sarcastically.

Two days ago Arthur had driven up to Ottawa to bring Matt home for Christmas. _Sure_,_ but when I go to visit him I have to take the fucking bus_, Al thought. But he was happy to have his brother home again; more happy than he wanted to admit. The only thing ruining Matt's homecoming was—

"Bonjour, Lars," said Francis, as the Dutch boy descended the stairs.

Lars replied in kind and thanked Francis for breakfast. He sat down at the table and smiled at Matt. Al eyed him suspiciously, chewing bacon and eggs. Because Lars' family lived in New York—Al was shocked when he realized that Lars was Laura's older brother—Arthur had offered to drive him back as well. The threesome had arrived late last night and, unbothered by house-guests, Francis had insisted that Lars spend the night. Matt had vacated his bedroom and slept with Al—which Al didn't mind—while Lars took his room. Al didn't know why, but the thought of Lars in Matt's bedroom angered him. Even though they shared a dorm-room at school, it made Al uncomfortably knowing that the Dutch boy had slept in Matt's bed.

"Did you sleep well?" Matt asked Lars.

"Yes. Thank-you for letting me stay here," he said to Francis. Francis smiled. Al glared.

* * *

Your house is really great, Matt. It's huge," said Lars, surveying the parlour. "Three floors, isn't it? I knew you were a rich-kid, but I wasn't expecting _this_. What do your parents do exactly— shit gold?"

Matt chuckled. "Close. Papa owns a chain of _very_ successful, high-class restaurants, with locations all over the world. And my Dad's a pure imperialist; I think he probably _owns_ half the world by now. He's in real-estate," Matt clarified. "They do alright."

Lars whistled, impressed. "And you're going to inherit this kingdom, are you? The world's finest restaurants and a summer-home on every continent?" he mocked. "You and Al?"

"Al wants to be a movie star," Matt corrected, rolling his eyes. "Playing a superhero on-screen is the next best thing to being one for real, I guess."

"Doesn't surprise me. And you? You've never told me what you want to do."

"Al wants me to be his co-star or stunt-double—whichever I prefer. But, truth be told, I'm not that dramatic," he stage-whispered, as if it weren't obvious. "When I was younger I wanted to play in the NHL."

"You don't anymore?" Lars asked.

"Oh no, it's going to happen," Matt assured him, smiling. "But it wouldn't hurt to have a backup plan, just in case something goes wrong— if I break a leg or take one too many blows to the head, you know?"

"Right. So what's the backup plan then?"

Matt shrugged, feeling suddenly shy. "I haven't given it too much thought, but maybe... working for the UN."

"The UN?" Lars repeated. "No offense, Matt, but I've seen you skate and I've seen you debate, and I'm telling you this as your friend: You'll have a _much_ easier time making the NHL."

"Eh!" Matt punched his shoulder. "I'm not _that_ bad a public-speaker. Besides, there are plenty of jobs that I can do for the UN that don't require speech-making."

"Yeah," said the Dutch boy benignly. "You're right— you could always fetch coffee."

Matt punched him again.

* * *

Alfred, what's wrong?" asked Arthur. "Why are you moping?"

"I'm not _moping_. I'm just sick of looking at that Dutch guy's smug face. When's he going home anyway?"

Arthur folded his arms. "Soon. Why?" Curiously he circled around his son and leant toward him. "Are you jealous of Lars?" he teased, smiling.

Al's heart skipped a beat in surprise. A dozen horribly-embarrassing scenarios jumped into his head; a dozen questions wanting answers: _Did Matt tell him about the shower thing_? _Does he know what I did_? _Can he tell that I'm still thinking about it_— _about Mattie_ (_that I can't _not_ think about him_)?! _Arthur_ can't_ know_; _there's nothing _to_ know_! _I'm a hormonal, teenage boy— I didn't do anything wrong_! In the short time it took Al to find his voice, his heart was pounding. "_Jealous_ of Lars? Of course not, that's stupid," he laughed nervously. "I just—"

"It's alright. It's wasn't a secret, Alfred," Arthur chuckled.

Al felt himself blush. "It... wasn't?" _Oh God, he knows_! —_And he's making fun of me_,_ the bastard_!

"That you missed your brother? Of course not. You don't exactly have a poker-face, pet. Mathew's been gone since September, and Lars gets to spend every day with him; it's natural that you feel jealous of him. But relax, Alfred. Lars is going home this afternoon and you'll have Matt all to yourself until January."

"Oh," Al sighed in relief. Matt hadn't told; Arthur didn't know. _Not that there's anything to know_! he denied. "Yeah, you're right. I guess I _did_ miss Mattie," he smiled. But now Matt was home for Christmas, and he didn't have to go back until the New Year. No Ottawa; no boarding-school; no Lars Van den Berg.

For four weeks Al would have Matt entirely to himself.


	6. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER: _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ — Hidekaz Himaruya **

**BROTHERLY LOVE  
**

* * *

**FIVE**

**NEW YORK CITY **

**SUMMER 2011**

In June, Antonio and Gilbert returned from university for the summer, and—being reunited with their younger family members and friends—immediately took it upon themselves to teach the group of high-schoolers some new _games_. Some of which they had learned at university, and some of which they couldn't believe the high-schoolers had never played before. "You've _never_ played spin-the-bottle or truth-or-dare?! What've you been doing for fun?"

Al had shrugged. "Sports, video games— throwing rocks at things. You know, normal stuff. It's not like we don't know what those stupid games are, obviously, we've just never played before."

"Oh, misspent youth!" cried Antonio, feigning sadness. "It's a good thing you've got us." He winked suggestively at Lovino, who looked down in embarrassment. "Fear not, your big brothers are here now and we're going to teach you how to have _fun_."

"That's right," said Gilbert self-importantly. "But first we've got to get you kids properly drunk."

* * *

The summer of Al and Matt's fifteenth birthday was a memorable one—for many reasons.

Al learned to water-ski, and Matt learned to drive; Al learned how to smoke cigarettes, and Matt learned how to play poker and win; Al learned to chug beer, and Matt learned to take shots. Their vocabulary expanded, and they were introduced to the world of HBO. They learned how to sneak booze into bars, and which ones would serve them underage. They learned how to fight, and how (and when) to run, and how to avoid throwing-up all night. But mostly they learned how much more fun all of this was when they were together.

* * *

Matt's getting pretty good at poker; kid's got a knack for it. I think it's time we taught them how to play strip-poker."

Al stopped outside of the kitchen, eavesdropping on Gilbert and Antonio.

Arthur and Francis had left for the long weekend, warning the boys _not_ to have people over: "That house had better be standing when I get back," Arthur threatened, wagging a finger at his teenage sons. "Just don't do anything dangerous," Francis added, kissing them both as he left. Neither of them expected Al and Matt to follow the rules, but, as parents, they couldn't be seen to condone such behaviour. "They can't _possibly_ get into more trouble than we used to, chéri," said Francis to Arthur. But, funny enough, that didn't make the Englishman feel any better.

"You just want to see Mattie undressed," Antonio teased his schoolmate. "You think I can't see you staring at him? You're not subtle, Gil. You touch him every chance you get."

Al waited, but Gil didn't deny it.

"He's only fifteen, you know," said Antonio, "six years your junior."

"No younger than Lovino was when you stuck your dick in him for the first time," Gil countered. "And he's your fucking cousin, dude."

"_Distant_ cousin! We're not _that_ close," Antonio corrected, not—Al thought—for the first time. "And I didn't touch him until he was sixteen. It wasn't illegal then."

"It wasn't exactly safe," Gil snickered.

The conversation dissolved into a fit of insults and Al left. He didn't want either of them to know he had been listening, even though it was _his_ house. Instead, he headed for the parlour, unaware that he was looking for Matt until he found him talking to Lars. _No_, Al thought, feeling defensive. Gilbert, Lars—_who else wants to fuck Mattie_? _Just leave my brother alone_!

* * *

Alright, strip-poker works like this," Gil explained. "First you get good and drunk"—he glanced at the young, flushed, and giggling faces sitting around the table—"Good. Now, if you lose a hand you lose an article of clothing until you're stark naked. Sound easy enough?" he asked, dealing the cards. "Then let's play."

A half-hour later Al was sitting shirtless and barefoot beside Lovino, who sat in his boxer-shorts. "I hate this fucking game!" the Italian yelled, red-faced in anger. He threw down his cards and sulked.

"Oh, don't hate, fratello," Feliciano smiled, half-dressed. "I think we are having a good time, sì?"

"Ludwig, you in?" the dealer—Antonio—called. Ludwig folded, as did Lars, Laura, and Eliza. "Matt?"

"Raise," said Matt, fully dressed.

"I'll see your raise," said Gil in challenge. A daring player, he was almost as naked as Lovino; though, it didn't seem to bother him. "Let's see what you've got Mattie." Matt, who had been a relatively cautious player, revealed a lowly pair of sixes. Gil smirked. "Finally! You had to be bluffing sometime," he said victoriously. "I want your shirt."

"Fine," Matt sighed. He pulled his t-shirt off to a chorus of playful whistles and cat-calls; it was the first time he had been forced to remove an article of clothing, and the group was savouring his defeat. "Here," he said, bawling up his shirt and hurling it at Gil, who made a show of pressing the fabric to his cheek, and saying: "It's still warm."

Everyone laughed—except Al.

An hour later, half-naked and happily drunk, the group decided to play a game involving: "Body-shots," said Antonio slyly. "Lovi, querido, come here. I'm going to demonstrate how to do it."

The young teenagers shrieked and laughed as they played, becoming louder and more creative the more they drank; swaying and stumbling and hiccupping. Al cheered when Ludwig, blushing furiously, took a shot from a glass between Laura's breasts; and snorted in laughter when Eliza, shot-glass between her teeth, spilled tequila on Lars' face as she poured it into his mouth. Al was made to take a shot upside-down; and Feliciano was made to lick salt off of Al's neck before taking a tequila shot. Shirtless, Al was flushed and happy; a bit dizzy, but hot-blooded and ready for anything—until Antonio said: "Alright Matt, it's your turn to take some abuse." Matt's eyes were feverishly bright as he was made to lie down on the coffee-table. Antonio flipped the bottle of tequila like a bartender and, keeping a hand on Matt's chest to prevent him from moving, poured the salty-sweet liquid over his stomach, into his navel. Al saw Matt's body shudder, rippling the muscles in his torso. Then he saw Antonio take the empty bottle they were spinning to determine who would take the shot, and saw the dark-eyed Spaniard exchange a conspiratorial glance with Gil. And Al panicked. _No fucking way am I letting that letch's lips touch Matt_. Just as Antonio sent the bottle into a controlled spin, Al bumped the table. The bottle jumped, and, rather than Gil, it landed on him.

There was an awkward pause, until Ludwig said: "Spin it again. You can't make him lick his brother."

"Yeah, that'd be too weird," Gil agreed, reaching for the bottle.

Al grabbed it. Feeling abrasive, he openly glared at Gil, and said: "It's alright. Better me than someone else." _It _is_ a little weird_, Al thought, kneeling beside the coffee-table; he could feel everyone's eyes watching him closely. _But at least I won't abuse it_.

"Hurry up, Al!" Matt whined. "It's so sticky."

Beads of sticky, golden tequila slid over the slope of Matt's slender stomach. His soft, pale skin was flushed pink, and his violet eyes were vivid. He squeezed them shut as Al's lips touched his skin, gently at first; then instinct took over and Al opened his mouth against Matt's navel, sucking out the tequila. He dragged his hot tongue slowly over Matt's teenage muscles, swallowing the salty liquor and the taste of his brother's skin, savouring it.

"I think you got it all," Antonio interrupted, laying a hand on Al's shoulder. Not unkindly he pulled him back. Drunk, the group was staring curiously at he and Matt, whose shoulders were arched; head leant back; lips forming a silent, erotic O as Al had licked him—but, fortunately, nobody said a word.

* * *

It was half-past three in the morning when Al staggered hazily upstairs, clutching Matt. Matt was wheeling from the liquor, head throw back blissfully as Al guided him, half-dragging him, down the long hallway. When Al stopped at Matt's bedroom, Matt hugged his brother's stomach, and slurred: "No— I want to sleep with _you_." And so Al took his brother into his bedroom, into his bed, and let Matt curl up beside him. "Al," he whispered. So close, Al could smell the liquor on his breath; could count the freckles on his otherwise flawless skin. Closing his eyes, Matt laid his head down on Al's chest and sighed in contentment. "You're funny, but I like you," he rambled, half-asleep already. "I like your lips. I like when you hold me... like this."

Al stayed perfectly still and silent, holding him as Matt talked himself to sleep. He waited until he was _sure_ that his brother was unconscious, and then laid his chin atop Matt's head. The house was quiet; everyone was passed-out downstairs, sleeping soundly. It was dark. There were no witnesses present to watch Al's broad chest rise, inhaling in stark realization: _I want him. I want Matt. _His brother, but not by blood. _I _am_ jealous. I _am_ overprotective_. And now he knew why: _It's because I love him_— _and I want him to love me too_. _Maybe_, he thought, hugging Matt; holding him the way Matt liked to be held, _he already does_? Tenderly he touched his lips to Matt's forehead, fingers curling gently in his pale-blonde hair. _You're my favourite person in the world, Mattie_. _I_— He paused. There was nobody to hear him admit to himself: "I love you."

* * *

Matt couldn't remember anything about the previous night's exploits, except that he had drank _a lot_ of liquor and had woke up, half-naked, in Al's arms. Al was still asleep, bedraggled wheat-blonde hair standing on-end, chest rising and falling, lips slightly parted. Matt liked Al's shapely lips, so full and surprisingly soft. He had always been just a little bit jealous of Al's blatant good-looks: tall and strong-looking, with warm honey-brown skin, cornflower-blue eyes, and a beautiful, happy smile. The girls loved him, _and why shouldn't they_? Matt thought, _he's attractive, athletic, smart_—despite what some people claimed—_and he loves to have fun. Any girl would be lucky to have Al_;_ he'd spoil her_. _He'd be the best boyfriend she could hope for_:_ loving, loyal, protective_—

Matt got up, walked into the washroom, and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror, looking like "the-day-after". He slapped his pale cheeks, trying to draw some colour into them, but his efforts only produced red handprints. _And now I look like a victim of domestic abuse_, he thought unhappily. He sighed and, pulling off his clothes, climbed into the shower, hoping that the searing-hot water would clear his befuddled head. But as he lathered scented soap into his hair his thoughts inadvertently returned to Al, asleep in his bed.

Matt was happy to be home. He loved living in Ottawa, and he liked his schoolmates, but he couldn't deny how much he missed Al when he was at school. Yes, he missed Arthur and Francis, and his friends in New York, but it didn't hurt to leave them; being separated from them didn't make him feel empty—incomplete.

He and Al had both grown-up a lot since last September. Al had become bigger and bolder, more daring and obnoxious and, if possible, even louder than he had been before; less of a child. _Have I changed_? he wondered, feeling strangely sad. Secretly, he was afraid that the distance between he and Al would, someday, become more than just geographic; he was afraid that Al would get bored of him. _He's got such a short attention span_, he worried, _and I'll be gone again for ten months_. _I don't want to leave him_, he thought, heart pounding; pulse beating fast. He felt hot—too hot. "Oh shit!" he cursed, reaching below his waist; realizing just how favourably his body was reacting. _Fucking hormones_, _I was only thinking about Al—_ He stopped. Steam roiled over him and he felt dizzy—much too hot. His stomach lurched suddenly and Matt flung himself out of the shower. He threw-up several times in the washroom sink, gagging as he expelled the contents of his stomach from the night before. Then he sank to the floor and leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply, listening as the shower ran on. "Al," he whispered. _Why would it be Al_?

* * *

Matt got himself cleaned-up, had a very _cold_ shower, and went downstairs to make breakfast for his houseguests. He and Feliciano prepared pancakes, sausages, and grapefruit for everyone feeling well enough to eat, which was a surprising number, considering the vast amount of liquor that had been consumed the night before. Laura kissed each of their cheeks to show her gratitude, then commandeered the washroom to get cleaned-up; the boys could hear Eliza hammering on the second-floor washroom door, yelling at her to get out: "You've been in there for almost an hour, it's my turn!" Ludwig left early, insisting that he needed to get to work. He disliked tardiness almost as much as his boss. Feliciano kissed him—on the lips—as he left, producing embarrassed outrage from the German, shouting at his older brother as he hurried off: "You're going to be late too, Gil!" Gil ignored Ludwig's haste. He lounged on a couch in the parlour, sucking maple syrup from his fingers. Antonio was the next to leave, offering to drive the Italians home. Then the girls left, arguing cattily as they searched the messy house for their belongings (i.e. clothes).

By the time Al dragged himself sluggishly into the kitchen, Gil had fallen asleep in the parlour, and Lars was helping Matt wash the dishes. "Did I miss breakfast?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Matt gestured: "I left a plate in the microwave for you—" He flinched. "Lars, that was my hand."

"Oh, sorry," said the Dutch boy, hands submerged in soapy water. "So you're sure it's alright if I ride back to school with you next week?" he asked. "Your Dad won't mind?"

"No, of course not." Matt dried his hands on a tea-towel and began putting everything away. "Al, we've got to clean up before Dad and Papa get home. I got a text earlier." He fished his cell-phone from his jeans' back pocket and showed his brother: TWO HOUR WARNING. THE HOUSE HAD BETTER BE CLEAN.

"I'll stay and help you," Lars started, but Matt interrupted:

"No, don't worry about it. You're the only one who _didn_'_t_ make a mess. Al and I can do it."

Lars finished the dishes, kicked his cousin awake, and then left the Kirkland-Bonnefoi brothers to the titanic task of cleaning up after a raging house-party, organized by the playful Spanish-German duo. Al vacuumed the carpet as Matt collected empty bottles, shot-glasses, and food wrappers; wiping the furniture clean of sticky residue, and— "who's boxers are those?" he asked. Al shrugged. Carefully he picked up the abandoned boxer-shorts with a pair of kitchen tongs and tossed them into the garbage bin. They were hauling a big bag down the stairs to the garbage chute when Matt's cell-phone buzzed.

"Dad?" Al guessed.

"No, it's Lars," Matt stopped to answer it. "Wants to know what time we're leaving on Friday." Matt shoved his cell-phone back into his pocket and lifted his half of the heavy, filled-to-bursting bag, but Al didn't move. "Al?"

"Hey, what's the deal with you two anyway?"

Matt blinked. "What do you mean? We're roommates, just friends."

"Are you sure that's all it is, just friends? Nothing more?" Al cocked his head. "C'mon, Matt, you're not _that_ dense. Lars likes you as more than a friend. He's got a huge crush on you."

Matt pursed his lips, then sighed. "I know." He had known for a while, since returning to school in January.

"And you—?" Al prompted.

"Are you asking me if I'm gay? Is this really a conversation you want to have _here_, in the corridor?"

Al shrugged. "Nobody's here. And I don't care— if you are," he clarified. "I just want to know."

Matt shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. I've never thought about it. I've never really thought about anyone that way," he lied. "I like Lars a lot, but probably not in the way he wants. He's a good friend."

"Definitively not what he wants," Al agreed.

"Well, why does it even matter?" Matt asked defensively. He could feel himself growing warm, flushing.

"It doesn't," said Al. "I just— It's _me_, Mattie. We don't have secrets from each other, remember?" _Not since you left_, he wanted to say; Matt could see it on his face. Wordlessly Al lifted the bag. They carried it in silence to the garbage chute, then dumped it inside. Side-by-side they walked back to their penthouse apartment, but, before Al opened the door, he stopped. "Hey Matt?" he said, facing him. "Any guy would be lucky to have you."

Matt punched him in the shoulder. "Gee, thanks Al. When'd you get so sappy?"—but he felt himself smile.

* * *

Mathew, are you ready to go? Lars is waiting in the car," said Arthur, checking his wristwatch. "Hurry up, I want to— Francis, let go of him. Are you going to do this every time?" he asked, annoyed.

Francis hugged Matt tightly, his cheek pressed to Matt's. "I'll miss you, mon bébé. Christmas seems like such a long time to wait. Come home for Thanksgiving this year, oui? Papa will buy you a plane ticket, chéri." He kissed Matt's cheek and then reluctantly released him. "Call me when you get there— call me whenever you want."

"Oui, Papa. I'll miss you too," said Matt. Then he turned to Al.

There wouldn't be a casual handshake this year; no trying to bury his feelings. Al scooped Matt into his arms and squeezed him tightly, burying his face against his brother's shoulder; his silky pale-blonde locks. He was fifteen-years-old, older now than last year, but tears pricked Al's blue eyes. "Be careful, okay?"

"I'm going to Ottawa, Al. Not Moscow." But Al could feel Matt's arms clutch him. When Matt finally pulled away, his violet eyes were beaded with tears too. "That's in Russia," he added needlessly, cracking a smile.

Al frowned. "I know where Moscow is!" He pulled Matt into another, more aggressive hug, holding him until Arthur insisted that he let go. "But seriously, don't make me worry, Matt." Al knew that he was being overprotective—like Arthur and Francis—but, after everything they had experienced this summer, he couldn't stand the thought of Matt tearing up Ottawa without him; couldn't stand the possibility of Matt getting hurt. _Just go to school and stay in your dorm-room, away from sketchy people who want to take advantage of you_.

"I won't," Matt promised. "See you at Thanksgiving."


	7. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER: _Hetalia: Axis Powers_ — Hidekaz Himaruya **

**BROTHERLY LOVE  
**

* * *

**SIX**

Al said goodbye to Matt four times before he was home again for the summer holiday. They celebrated their sixteenth birthday together—Matt on July 1st, and Al on July 4th—and only then realized just how much the other had grown. Al was becoming a big, strong-looking all-American; and Matt was becoming a slighter, decidedly-Canadian beauty. They still had the same sense of humour and the same taste in _American junk-food_, but Al's favourite films and bands were no longer Matt's, and he found Matt's interest in world affairs increasingly boring. Matt started to think that Al was too arrogant; he didn't need to be constantly reminded of his brother's triumphs, and—after sixteen years—it was starting to bother Matt that Al never listened when he talked. But they still got excited to see each other. They still ran and threw their arms around each other whenever Matt came home. They still spent the whole summer inseparably.

Against Arthur's better judgement, Francis bought Al a car for his birthday, and Al took great pleasure in cruising the New York streets with Matt beside him. He loved driving fast on the highway, blasting the radio loudly and laughing as he and his brother sang along. Someone even confused them for a couple at Coney Island, when Al paid for two ice-creams and then proceeded to lick Matt's anyway. He began to feel increasingly jealous of anyone—especially men—who flirted with Matt, _especially_ when he was half-naked on the beach.

And Matt began to feel less and less secure when Al flirted with pretty, half-naked girls, his good-looks and natural charisma drawing them like flies. He started saying things like: "It's only because you're rich," or "it's the car she likes, not you," or "I bet she says that to every guy," feigning concern for his brother, all the while fighting the truth: that he was jealous, and terrified that someday Al would lose interest in him.

It was a long, hot summer in New York City. Arthur bought a splendid beach house on Long Beach, and that's where Al and Matt and their friends spent the majority of July and August. Matt invited his friends from Ottawa to join them for a long weekend, and the big, raucous group had so much fun together that the police were eventually called to quell the noise. They laughed and drank and smoked and swam; they fought and accused each other of illicit activities, while others actually indulged in illicit activities. It was a wonderfully dizzying time.

Then it was time for Matt to return again to Ottawa. "Take care of yourself," Al said, his hand resting subtly on Matt's head, tangled in his sun-bleached hair.

"I will," said Matt, pressing his cheek to Al's when he hugged him.

* * *

**NEW YORK CITY 2012**

Al was dead-asleep when he heard his cell-phone ring, playing an obnoxiously loud song. It shocked him awake, and he hurried to answer it before it woke Arthur and Francis. "Mm... hello?" he mumbled sleepily, rolling onto his back.

"Al, it's me."

Al's eyes snapped open. "_Mattie_? It's"—he glanced at the clock—"two in the morning. What's wrong?"

"Al... can you come get me?" Matt's voice was soft. He sounded scared.

Al sat up in bed, blankets pooling at his waist. "What's going on? Where are you?" he asked, worried.

"Syracuse, at a bus terminal."

"_What_?! Why aren't you in Ottawa— how'd you get to Syracuse?!" Al panicked.

Matt's voice got softer. "Al." He swallowed—_is he crying_? Al wondered. "Could you please just come get me?"

It took Al thirty seconds to get dressed, dragging on a t-shirt and jeans, pulling on a hoodie, and his shoes. He shoved his cell-phone into his pocket, grabbed his wallet and car keys, and was on the highway within ten minutes. It should have taken Al three hours to get from New York City to Syracuse, but he did it in two, testing his car's horse-power. The highway was empty so early in the morning; just transport-trucks and Al's speeding sports car. He arrived at the bus terminal at five-thirty in the morning, and pulled up just as an older, greasy-looking man leant down over Matt. "Hey, fucking piss-off!" Al shouted, opening his door. Matt sprang up like a scalded dog and ran to the car. He threw his satchel into the backseat and then climbed into the front, pale-faced and red-eyed. Al drove back to the highway, and then pulled off into a carpool lot. Matt looked confused, until Al said: "Tell me what happened."

"Al, can we not—"

"No," Al interrupted, sounding scarily like Arthur. "That wasn't a request, Mattie. Tell me why I just drove two-hundred and fifty miles at two in the fucking morning to come get you. Why aren't you at school?"

"I _was_ at school. But I left," said Matt ambiguously.

Al stared hard at him: "_Why_?"

Matt swallowed; red eyes threatening tears. It was then that Al realized Matt's hands were shaking. "I was in the library afterhours, I've got a report due— today," he realized. "S-sometimes I work late so the librarian leaves me the key to lock-up. Then one of my professors came in," he shrugged, refusing to meet Al's eyes. "He was one of my... favourite professors. His classes were always... Anyway, it was just him and I, and..." Matt sucked back a sob; a pearly tear rolled down his cheek. "I don't know why, but he... f-forced himself on m-me. He tried t-to..."

Al stared at him in horrified disbelief. Matt's whole body was shaking. "Mattie—?"

"I just... I hit him with a dictionary," Matt laughed nervously, more tears falling, "and I fucking ran. I didn't even go b-back to my d-dorm. I just grabbed my s-satchel and ran to the bus s-stop. I'm not allowed to leave the s-school grounds without p-permission," he panicked. "And I assaulted a t-teacher. I'm going to be in s-so much t-trouble, but I d-didn't want to g-go b-back. I don't w-want to g-go b-back, Al."

Al pulled Matt into his arms and hugged him, rocking him slightly; petting his brother's hair. He didn't know what to say. He felt sick; enraged; worried, but furious at the same time. "It's okay," he heard himself repeating: "It's okay, Matt. You're safe, I'm here. I'm going to take you home. It's okay." Matt's fingers clawed at Al's blue hoodie. Al held him for almost a half-hour while he cried, shaking violently. Then, slowly, he released Matt and shifted the car into DRIVE. "Let's go home," he said. Silently, Matt nodded.

* * *

Where the fuck have you been?!" Arthur raged. "What the bloody-hell did you do, Alfred?!"

"Gone! No note, no text, just gone in the middle of the fucking night!" Francis yelled. "I can't— _Mathieu_?!"

Matt stood behind Al, half-shielded by his brother's body, clenching his satchel-strap. "Hi Dad, Papa," he said, somewhat anticlimactically given the circumstances. "I'm home."

"Yes, but _why_?" Arthur asked suspiciously, the ghost of worry in his tone. "Why aren't you at school? How did you even get here? Alfred couldn't have crossed the border to get you—"

"No, I took the bus. I paid for my own ticket. I just... wanted to come home," Matt told the floor.

"In the middle of the night?" Francis asked skeptically. "Mathieu, what aren't you telling us? Did something happen at school? Tell me, chéri."

Matt glanced at Al for help, big violet eyes tear-filled. "I just..."

"Alfred," said Arthur, reading the exchange. "What happened?" Pause. Al pursed his lips, keeping silent. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Arthur cursed in exasperation. "I'm not asking, boys. What sort of trouble did you get into that you had to run home, Mathew? How much is this going to cost me to fix? Do I need to call the school to—"

"It's not Matt's fault!" Al snapped, swelling defensively. "It's that fucking school!"

Matt closed his eyes, trying desperately to hold back the tears, but it was futile. Involuntarily he gasped, drawing everyone's attention. "Mathieu?" Francis worried, looking at Al in panic. He pulled Matt into a hug, and said: "Alfred?" in an expectant tone. Al sighed in defeat.

"Al, don't—" Matt started, but Al said:

"One of Mattie's teachers attacked him, tried to fuck him," he said indelicately.

For a moment the house was dead-silent. Then the English and Frenchman exploded in such a colossal rage that Matt flinched. They yelled at Matt and Al, and at each other, in fear and revulsion; not angry, just panicking at an intense volume; they used words that Matt didn't even know, but they did not sound kind. Francis held Matt tightly, seeming to irrationally think that it was somehow his fault. He asked repeatedly if Matt was okay: "You're not hurt, are you Mathieu? Mon Dieu, what a horrible thing, bébé— mon Mathieu." Matt assured him that he wasn't hurt, but Francis didn't seem to hear him. Arthur had whipped out his cell-phone and furiously dialed the school's head office. He was shouting: "Yes I fucking know what time it is! Do you think I'm a goddamned idiot?! Who do I speak to about having someone bloody-fucking fired?!"

It was chaotic for about twenty-minutes, until Al said: "Matt, maybe you should get some sleep."

Matt nodded. He took Al's hand: "Come with me. I don't want to sleep alone."

* * *

Al bundled Matt beneath the blankets and crawled in beside him. He was tired; Matt must be exhausted, but his eyes were wide awake, staring blankly. "He actually _forced_ me down, Al," he whispered. "He touched me like I was—"

"Hey, look at me," said Al, pressing his forehead against Matt's. "You're safe now, I promise. Dad and Papa won't let you go back until that fucker's been fired, okay? They won't make you go back until you want to. You're home now, Mattie. I'm here." Impulsively he kissed Matt's temple. "I'm here," he repeated, pulling Matt's arms more closely around his own chest. "See? Despite my roguish good-looks, I'm not just a dream," he joked, provoking a pale smile from his brother. "I'm right here, Mattie. Just go to sleep."

Eventually Matt fell into a troubled sleep. Al could tell because his eyelids were fluttering, forehead creased, and his fingers clenched the folds of Al's t-shirt, almost desperately. Once, when Al thought Matt looked trapped in a nightmare, he woke him. "Hey, you okay?" he asked. Groggily Matt blinked, then nodded. He buried his head beneath Al's chin and fell back to sleep. Al, however, stayed awake, too angry to sleep. He looped his arms around Matt and stared at the ceiling. He could hear traffic outside, but his bedroom drape's were closed and it was dark. His clock read: 10:05AM, telling him that he was late for school. _Fuck school_, he thought rebelliously. _I'm not going anywhere until Matt feels better. I'll stay here all day if he wants_— _just us_.

* * *

Matt was home for a week, afraid to return to the boarding-school until his professor was removed, which—at the rate Arthur and Francis were throwing their weight around—should be _very _soon. "I should text Lars and tell him I'll be flying back on Monday," Matt said, snuggled against Al's side.

They were sitting in the living-room, watching old superhero films that they had both seen several hundred times, and eating candy-bars: "Because Mattie's upset," Al urged, taking advantage of the opportunity to make Francis buy prepackaged sweets. "What's the official story?" he asked, unwrapping a chocolate bar. He broke a piece off and offered it to Matt, who simply opened his mouth—both hands busy texting. Al grinned and slipped the chocolate into his brother's mouth, casually brushing his bottom lip.

"Family emergency? Maybe I unexpectedly came down with something contagious? I don't know," Matt said.

Al thought. "Maybe you were abducted by Hydra—"

"—and rescued by Captain America," Matt finished on-cue. They both laughed. "Yeah, let's go with that." He leaned back and heaved a sigh. "I'm going to be a week behind in schoolwork. I don't really want to go back yet. I'm not scared," he hurried. "I just don't want to leave yet." In indication he tossed his cell-phone aside and flopped down across Al's lap. Al, legs kicked up on the coffee table, pulled a blanket over him.

* * *

This time when Al and Matt said goodbye to each other, it was at the airport. Arthur and Francis were flying back with Matt to ensure that every one of their demands regarding a certain professor had been met. Al was staying behind, having missed almost as much school as Matt. It had, despite the horrific circumstances, been a rather enjoyable visit as far as Al was concerned. Sure, he would beat that fucking would-be rapist bloody if he ever saw him on the street (unlikely, since Arthur and Francis were trying to have him charged), but at least Al got to see Matt much sooner than expected, and they had got to spend an entire uninterrupted week together—no school and no friends (nobody else knew that Matt was home).

"Safe flight. Call me when you get there," Al said to him.

"Sure thing," said Matt, looking up just as Al leaned in to kiss his forehead. Al's lips missed and briefly kissed Matt's lips instead. "Oh— s-sorry," Matt said, flushing deeply.

Al opened his mouth to reply, thinking it a happy accident; he had wanted to taste Matt's lips for months. But Francis interrupted: "Come on, Mathieu. Behave while we're gone, Alfred."

"No parties," Arthur clarified. "And get to school on-time!" Then the three of them left.


	8. Chapter Seven

**DISCLAIMER: **_**Hetalia: Axis Powers**_** — Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**SEVEN**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**NEW YEAR'S EVE 2012**

Don't let me be lonely, Mattie. Not on New Year's Eve. You've _got_ to come!" Al moaned. He was on his knees on the floor, hugging Matt's waist as Matt tried and failed to move, dragging Al across his bedroom. "It'll be lots of fun, and I'll be _so lonely_ without you!"

"Fine," Matt relented. "I'll go. But Times Square is always so crowded on New Year's Eve."

Al leapt happily up. "Don't worry, Mattie," he teased cheekily. "You can hold my hand."

They left the house at seven o'clock and met the Italians at a pizzeria for supper, the four of them chatting excitedly about spending New Year's Eve in Times Square. They were soon joined by Gil and Ludwig, who let Feliciano slide up beside him, half-sitting on the German's lap; while Gil listed off what he had brought them all to drink, patting a satchel in explanation. Lars and Laura arrived next, followed by Eliza, who—miraculously—was dragging Roderick along behind her. Antonio was late, but, eventually, the group had assembled.

"This is going to be epic!" Al proclaimed cheerfully. Bright lights, loud music, a snow-storm of confetti, and at midnight: _I'm going to kiss Mattie_— _really, properly kiss him_. Al's heart pounded in nervous excitement when he glanced at his brother beside him. Matt looked good tonight, ripe for kissing.

At ten o'clock they fought their way toward Times Square. It was snowing, but the liquor in their bellies kept them warm. Several of them linked arms and pulled each other in a human-train down the street, provoking yells of disapproval from passers-by and people they bumped into. Unfortunately they couldn't get anywhere near the stage, having arrived so late, so they climbed onto the balcony of a closed Chinese Restaurant that overlooked the street. Al took a bottle—hidden conspicuously inside a brown-paper bag—from Ludwig and drank greedily, then made to pass it to Matt, except that Matt wasn't there. Al searched the long, crowded balcony and finally spotted him in the corner talking, rather seriously, to Lars. Feeling slightly uneasy, Al took another swig, and wondered: _What does he want_?

* * *

Matt, can I kiss you at midnight?"

The question had taken Matt off-guard. Lars wasn't usually so forward; it must have been the liquor, though, he didn't look particularly pissed. _Actually_,_ he looks sober_, which made Matt feel all the more obligated to give him a proper explanation. "I think maybe we should talk," he said, feeling awkward. Lars gestured to the near-empty corner, and Matt followed him. The big Dutch boy had to duck beneath an overhang; he was growing into such a tall, strong-looking man—a very attractive one. His gravity-defying ash-blonde hair blew gently in the wind, and his careful, stoic eyes stared unblinkingly at Matt, waiting for him to speak. "Err... I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression," he started. "I like you a lot Lars, I consider you to be one of my best friends, but..."

Lars cocked his head. "You don't want to be with another guy?"

"No, it's not that," said Matt honestly. "It's a bit more... complicated. It's because of—" _Al. It's because I love Al. It's always been Al; it'll only ever be Al_.

Lars sighed. "It's somebody else, isn't it?"

The hurt in his voice, in his sage-green eyes, was hard to look at, but Matt did. "Yeah, I think so."

The Dutch boy nodded. He placed a big hand on Matt's shoulder and squeezed. "He's really lucky, Matt. But if things don't work with him, I'm next in line okay?" He smiled. "Your beau," he teased, ducking under the overhang as they returned, "is he here tonight?" Shyly, Matt nodded. "You'd better find him then, it's almost midnight."

The ten-second countdown started. Matt and Al locked eyes, and, in that instant, both knew exactly what the other was thinking. Matt tried to push his way toward Al at the opposite end of the balcony, but the crowd was excited and drunk and counting loudly, and nobody heard his plea: "Eh, excuse me— Could you just— Move!" He saw rather than heard Al's lips form his name: _Matt_! and wanted to reply, but got shoved back. He hit the metal railing hard and nearly lost his balance, but someone caught him. "Alright Mattie?!" Gil shouted over the noise, grinning happily; pale face flushed with heat and excitement. THREE, TWO, ONE—

Without warning, Gil pulled Matt into an unexpectedly hot, rough kiss.

* * *

Al's heart sank. Momentarily stunned, he stared at Gil and Matt, their lips locked together; Gil's hand was tangled in Matt's pale-blonde hair, holding the back of his neck. All around him his friends were celebrating, cheering loudly and toasting, and sucking each other's lips; falling over themselves in giddiness. But Al felt betrayed by Gil, who had—knowingly, or not—stolen Al and Matt's first kiss.

"Smile, Al!" Laura shouted, kissing his cheek. "It's 2013!"

"Yeah," Al forced a smile. "Sure—" _Happy fucking New Year_.

By the time Al finally reached Matt it was too late. The romance of New Year's kisses had ebbed and people were clamouring to get down from the balcony, pushing and shoving and shouting at each other. Matt looped his arm through Al's, keeping close as the bred-New Yorker cut a path through the crowd. He leapt down from the balcony, following his friends, and then caught Matt—not because Matt needed help, but because holding his waist was the closest Al was probably going to get to romance tonight. Discretely, he kept his hand on Matt's hip, guiding him to the street, where the crowd began to thin. "Anybody else hungry?" he asked, eyeing the busy McDonald's. _Eating to quell my disappointment_, he thought, only half-joking. But nobody heard him, too focused on their own midnight exploits: Lovino was tonsil-deep in Antonio; Feliciano was whispering to Ludwig as the German hailed a taxi-cab; and even Eliza had convinced Roderick to walk her home. The Van den Berg siblings had already left, claiming to have an early workday tomorrow, and Gil was making lewd gestures at a pair of equally inebriated girls, who smiled at him. _Am I the only one who's not going to have sex tonight_? Al thought in exaggeration. He sighed. "How about it, Matt?" he asked as the group dispersed. "You hungry?"

* * *

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and Al and Matt were sitting alone in Central Park, eating piping-hot French fries from McDonald's. Al grinned and took the fry Matt offered him, sucking the salt from his brother's fingers. They sat quietly, people-watching the rowdy, sleepless streets; rating everyone from drunkest to smuttiest to worst-dressed. It was a game they used to play from their balcony with binoculars when they were young. Al almost always won; he had a keen eye for strange things, but his heart wasn't in it tonight. He kept glancing at Matt, wanting to ask about Gil and what had happened, but a part of him was too afraid of the answer. Al had been so sure that Matt wanted to kiss him too; he had recognized the look in Matt's violet eyes—nervous excitement. But he hadn't said anything since.

_Maybe I should just ask him_, Al thought, finishing the fries. He lifted the carton and tossed it overhand, like a basketball, into a bin. _I need to know if he feels the same way I do_, _because if not I'm wasting my time_. _If he doesn't love me like I love him, then I need to try to get over him. _He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt beat him to it:

"Al?" he said.

Al turned his head—and Matt kissed him. It took him a second to realize what was happening, that _Matt_ was kissing _him_. That his brother's soft lips were sucking his; hot, wet tongue pressed against Al's lips, urging them open. In reflex, Al opened his mouth and suddenly felt Matt's tongue against his. And then, suddenly, he was kissing Matt back, leaning in and pulling him close, arms wrapped around each other; savouring the salty-sweet taste. It was deep and long, and when Al finally pulled back, Matt's lips were swollen. "Why did you—?" Al managed, staring in disbelief.

Matt shrugged, cheeks flushed. "I just really wanted to kiss you tonight, and I thought... maybe you wanted to kiss me too?"

Al's heart leapt. "Mattie, I've wanted to kiss you for months," he said. In proof, he seized Matt and kissed him again, forcing him down onto the hard, frozen ground.

"We should— go— somewhere," Matt gasped between kisses.

"Long Beach," Al suggested. Matt nodded.

Al hailed a taxi-cab and pulled Matt inside. He gave the cabbie the beach house's address, and then ignored the man's disapproval—glaring in the rear-view mirror. Al produced a long, low moan against Matt's lips, kissing him aggressively, slipping his hands beneath his brother's clothes; Matt's skin was smooth and cool, despite the pink flush colouring his cheeks. He felt Matt twist his fingers into his feathery, wheat-blonde hair as Al dragged his lips down the column of Matt's neck, kissing and sucking; nipping his collarbone playfully. It took an hour to get from Times Square to Long Beach, but it went by surprisingly fast—for Al, at least, who had his brother half-undressed. The cabbie had to bang on the window to indicate their arrival. "Oh, thanks— keep the change," Al said, shoving several bills at him. He and Matt walked side-by-side, holding each other, up the beach house's front steps; Al felt Matt's lips tickling his ear as he fished for his keychain, and, hands shaking in excitement, forced the key into the lock. Together they fell inside.

"Mattie, I love you," Al said, kissing him—once, twice, thrice. Guiding him into a bedroom.

Matt followed without resistance, leaning into Al: "I love you, too."

"I want you— now."

"Okay."

Young and virile, fueled by hot testosterone, Al and Matt fell lopsidedly onto the bed, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't the first time they had seen each other naked, and—hopefully, now that they had confessed their feelings—it wouldn't be the last. It was clumsy and messy and inexperienced; neither of them knew what he was doing. They let instinct guide them, exploring each other's lithe, teenage bodies. Al kissed and sucked and touched Matt in ways that he had only daydreamed about, drawing forth high-pitched erotic noises from his brother, which made him groan; he could feel his cock swelling in arousal. Matt squeezed his eyes shut and clenched the bed-sheets, chest rising and falling fast. Al leaned over him, straddling him as he worked his brother's hard cock, sweat beading between his shoulder-blades. When Matt's cock released in Al's hand, the American felt something stir in his stomach, signalling readiness. "Mattie, I can't wait—" he said, kissing Matt's thigh as he lifted him. "_Mattie_." He spread Matt's knees and pushed himself into his brother's body; slowly, at first, then he got more excited. It became fast and strong and uncoordinated, and Al felt dizzy with pleasure, rocking Matt's body.

"Ah-hah— O-oh God— Ah-_Al_!" Matt cried-out; Al's name dying on a moan. "Ah! Al—"

"_Oh fuck_!" Al gasped, clenching Matt's shoulders. "Mattie, I— _oh_— God, I love you—" _I love you so much_.

* * *

Mattie, you okay?" Al asked, breathing hard. "Hey." Tenderly, he wiped the tears from Matt's cheeks, and kissed him.

Matt nodded slowly. He felt stretched; exhausted. And pained. He hadn't expected sex to hurt so much. _Maybe we did it wrong_? he wondered, shifting: "_Ouch_!" He leaned back into the pillows, keeping his body perfectly still. Heart beating hard, he reached down and felt his thighs. "Al," he said nervously, feeling suddenly scared. "I'm bleeding." Al's face paled. "Is that... normal?"

"Err... I don't know." Al admitted, reaching for his cell-phone. He typed furiously, eyes wide; still panting.

"What're you doing?" Matt eyed him. "Are you Googling _post-sex symptoms_?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, what else do you want me to do?" said Al, slightly panicked. "I don't know... Does it... hurt?"

"Yeah." Matt saw Al cringe apologetically, but he didn't speak; just Googled. Matt sighed, relaxing a little. It felt nice knowing that Al was trying to take care of him, even after the fact of sex; in fact, he found his brother's frantic attempt somewhat comical. "You know," he said, shifting closer—biting back a gasp of discomfort, "if I have to go to the ER because of this, you'll be the one trying to explain what happened."

"I know— alien probing, right?" Al grinned.

"Yeah. Something like that." Matt snorted at the shocked look on Al's face. Quite obviously his brother was still somewhat self-conscious about his sexual performance, especially since nowhere in the smutty films he watched did anyone ever bleed afterward. Matt rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding, love," he assured his brother, kissing Al's cheek.

Al tossed his cell-phone aside. "Well, I think you'll live," he said, snuggling up to Matt. Yawning sleepily, he laid his head down on Matt's chest and closed his eyes. Matt couldn't resist combing his fingers through Al's blonde hair, surprisingly soft to the touch. Al sighed in contentment, already half-asleep. He said: "Mattie?"

"Hmm?"

"Happy New Year."

* * *

**JANUARY 2013**

Francis hung-up the telephone and walked to his lover's study, where he knew Arthur was working. He rapped his knuckles on the open door considerately, then sauntered inside. "I just spoke to Alfred," he said, waiting for Arthur's attention. The Englishman was typing, fingers flying over his laptop's keyboard. "He and Mathieu want to stay at the Long Beach house this week, until Mathieu has to go back to Ottawa on Friday. I told them they could. They spend so much time apart now, it's understandable that they want some time alone together. Arthur, are you listening to me?"

"Hmm? Yes, I am. The boys are staying at Long Beach," he recited, distracted. "That's fine."

Francis sighed. Playfully he leant down and pressed his lips to the back of Arthur's neck. When he jumped in surprise, Francis spun the desk-chair around and placed a hand on each arm, trapping Arthur. "The boys will be gone until Friday," he repeated, smiling seductively, "and I have tonight off."

He watched realization slowly dawn on Arthur's face, his English lover's lips curling into a receptive smile. In agreement, Arthur grabbed Francis' shirt-collar and pulled him down, somewhat roughly, into a kiss. Francis reached behind Arthur and closed his laptop. "I hope the boys can take care of themselves for a while."

"Mm... they'll be fine, chéri."

* * *

OW!" Matt yelled, biting his lip too late.

Al pulled quickly out of him and sat up. "Alright, too soon," he agreed, hurt by the tears in Matt's eyes. "You should've told me sooner," he said, feeling guilty but sexually frustrated. His cock was throbbing, still painfully erect. "Fuck," he cursed. "I'll be right back—"

Matt grabbed his forearm. "Sorry, Al."

Al forced a kind smile. "Hey, it's not your fault. I don't want to hurt you Ma-att!" He gasped when Matt's hand closed around his hard cock. "What're you—_ ah-hah_!"

"I'll help you, Al." Matt pushed Al onto his back. Then he knelt down, between his brother's legs, and closed his soft lips around Al's cock. The American choked back a deep, throaty groan. Matt ran his tongue along the thick length and then sucked. His voice reverberated, purring: "Al." It vibrated against Al's hot, slick member, producing an embarrassing sound:

"_Ah_! _Ooh Matt_—" Al grabbed a chunk of Matt's hair and guided his rhythm. "_Oh yes_!_ Mattie— faster_! _Ah_!"

* * *

That was... yeah, good," Al was still red-faced and panting. Matt grinned, wiping his chin with the bed-sheet. "When do you think you'll be able to..." Al nodded in indication, letting his eyes rake-over Matt's body, "you know... do it again?" He didn't want to hurt Matt, but he wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, knowing that in four short days they would be separated again for two long months. Sure, they would talk on the phone every night, and message each other—thank God for web-cams!—but Al wouldn't be able to touch Matt again until Spring Break. _Oh God_,_ I want to touch him_— _I want to fuck him_.

"Soon," Matt promised, pulling Al up. "C'mon, you need a shower."

The water was searing-hot and steamy, and the pressure was hard. It was a much bigger shower than Matt's dorm had been, but, as they climbed in together, both boys still laughed about the memory. "You looked so terrified," Al said, massaging soap into Matt's smooth skin. He mimicked Matt's fourteen-year-old expression. "Like you'd never seen a hard-on before."

"Well, can you blame me? It was _you_!" Matt defended himself. "And, if you recall, you didn't exactly respond like Casanova, Al. You wanted to sleep in Lars bed, remember?"

"I didn't think you'd ever want me to touch you again after that."

"Well," said Matt, guiding Al's hand to his cock. "I guess you were wrong."

Shower-sex, as it turned out, was much sexier in the movies. Al lifted Matt up, Matt wrapped his legs around his brother's tapered waist, and Al sunk deeply into him—then slipped. "AH!" they shrieked in union. Al's back hit the wall, feet slipping on the soapy floor. He caught himself, spreading his legs, and nearly dropped Matt. "Try this," he suggested, laying Matt awkwardly down on the shower tiles. But, though large, the shower wasn't big enough to fully lie down in, and they ended up somewhat contorted, legs in the air as Al fucked Matt. He was just getting into it when Matt choked; the shower-head was raining down on him, making it difficult to breath. They tried several awkward positions, but, in the end, they laughed more than they fucked, and wasted a full thirty-five minutes worth of water.

"You know what I've learned today?" Al asked, drying his hair—shaking it like a dog.

Matt wrapped a towel around his waist. "What's that?"

"Porn lies."

* * *

They ordered pizza and talked and laughed and tried to concentrate on TV-movies, but ended up kissing and fucking on the living-room couch. They kept the doors and windows locked and their cell-phones turned off, not wanting to be disturbed. They fell asleep on the couch, then woke in each other's arms and fucked again. They spent almost every minute together, and only left the house once in four days (they walked down to the convenience store when they ran out of soda-pop). "I love you. I've always loved you," they whispered to each other, where nobody could hear. It was fast-pace and enlightening, discovering things about themselves and each other they thought they had known. It felt surreal, getting to know each other on such a physically intimate level.

"I wish you didn't have to go back," Al said, lying beside Matt in bed. "I wish we could stay here forever."

"And I wish you would talk like Al and not some Victorian poet," Matt teased, poking at Al's sensitivities. In appeasement he kissed Al's nose, and added: "I wish you could come with me."

"Yeah." Pause. "Mattie, do you think what we're doing is... wrong?"

Matt was quiet for so long that Al started to feel self-conscious. Then he said: "No. We're more than brothers. We're best friends"—and lovers. "We've always been together. I can't imagine what my life would be like without you." Matt shrugged, as if it was incredibly obvious. "We belong together."

"Do you think we were meant to be adopted by the same parents?" Al asked. "Do you think it was fate?"

"Maybe."

Al smirked. "Now who's the poet?"

* * *

Al said goodbye to Matt on Friday, hugging him tightly, but their real goodbye was at the beach house on Thursday night. "I'll miss you," he whispered, subtly pressing his lips to Matt's ear, "I love you."

"Did you have fun at Long Beach?" Francis asked Al, waving as Arthur's car drove away. He wrapped an arm around Al's shoulders and squeezed paternally. "Usually you're upset when Mathieu leaves, but you look happy chéri."

"Yeah," Al said, smiling. "I am."

* * *

Mathew, you're grinning," said Arthur. He glanced sideways at his son, who was staring into the rear-view mirror, and he smirked, only mildly suspicious. "By the way, I never got to ask how your New Year's Eve was. Was is good, love?"

Matt nodded. "Yes. It was _really_ good."


	9. Chapter Eight

**DISCLAIMER: **_**Hetalia: Axis Powers**_**– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**EIGHT**

**HAWAII**

**MARCH 2013**

Spring Break!" Al shouted, pumping his fist in excitement. They disembarked in Honolulu and took a taxi-cab to a beautiful beach-side resort, the sun shining brightly. He inhaled deeply, savouring the clean, salty Pacific air—it was heavy and tropical, like rainfall—and threw his arm over Matt's shoulders. "Five days, all-inclusive," he said huskily. "And"—he took a hotel key-card from Arthur, wagging his eyebrows—"we have our own room."

"Don't make a mess," Arthur warned, as Francis pulled him into the room next door. "And _no_ room-service!"

Al and Matt exchanged a look, both grinning. "No room-service, got it Dad." They slipped into their room. Al closed the door—and Matt jumped into his arms.

* * *

Mattie, you're going to burn," said Al, crawling toward him. Matt was lying on a towel on his stomach, half-asleep. He shivered when Al squeezed a generous dollop of sun-block onto his naked back. His fingers were callused—his newest fad was trying to learn guitar—but it felt good as Al massaged sun-block into Matt's smooth, winter-white skin. He sighed in contentment, lips curling into a smile— "_Mm_! Al, stop it," he swatted at Al's hand, adventurously dipping beneath the waistband of Matt's swim-trunks. He rolled over and came face-to-face with Al, who was leaning down over him, wheat-blonde hair framing his face like a lion's mane. "Al don't, what if Dad and Papa—" Al pecked his lips, grinning mischievously, "—see us."

"Stop worrying, Mattie, they're— back," Al shot up, rolling onto his towel. "What're you doing back so soon?" he asked his parents as they approached, looking giddy.

"Mes bébés!" Francis called, leaning down clumsily. He ruffled the boys' hair. "Je adore mes bébés!"

"Oh God, are you drunk?" Al criticized, frowning up at Arthur.

Arthur, half-empty glass in hand, wagged his finger at Al. "Don't talk to me like—_hic_—that. I'm on vacation, I can do whatever I want." He grinned smugly, sipping hard liquor through a striped straw. "By the way, you boys aren't invited to supper tonight. Francis and I are going to—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know _exactly_ what you're going to do," Al rolled his eyes, glancing suspiciously at Francis, who smiled in drunken bliss. "That's fine, Matt and I'll go to the buffet."

"_Please_ try not to eat your bodyweight," Arthur said, using his weight as a counterbalance to pull Francis up.

They left and Al and Matt walked, arms looped together, to the buffet. They commandeered a table beneath a big umbrella on the patio overlooking the ocean, and then proceeded to taste everything the buffet had to offer. "Here, try this," said Matt, feeding his brother a forkful of honey-glazed meat. Al smiled happily and bounced off to get more, while Matt—whose sweet-tooth was legendary—tested every flavour of ice-cream available.

"Are you putting syrup on ice-cream?" Al cocked an eyebrow. Matt shrugged innocently. Al didn't argue; he left to refill his plate, favouring the chef with a smile. The man rolled his eyes (the universal sign for: _again_?) and sliced a generous helping of lamb-chops onto the hungry teenager's plate. Al was about to leave when he accidentally bumped into an equally-hungry teenager, whose plate clattered to the floor. "Oh fuck— that was my bad, sorry dude."

"S'alright, mate. No worries," said the stranger. He was big, broad-shouldered, and darkly suntanned, with a thick, unmistakably Australian accent. "Another, ay?" he asked the chef, reaching for a new plate. He smiled at Al, showing no hard-feelings, and said: "This buffet's really cracking, ain't it? Best barbie I've had here— you a Pommie?"

"A _what_?" Al asked, confused. "I'm from New York."

"Oh, right on then. I'm here with my little brother— Ay, Kaelin!" he shouted as an afterthought, waving to a slight-boned boy poking at a cantaloupe. He looked up and blinked. The Australian pointed to the lamb-chops. "You want some chops? They've got heaps!" He began piling lamb-chops onto his plate, ignoring the chef's help. "I'm Jett, by the way. Are you here alone? Want to join us?" he asked Al, nodding to a table crowded with plates.

"I've got a better idea. Why don't you two join _us_?"

Al led Jett and Kaelin out onto the patio and introduced them to Matt, who accommodatingly made room for everyone. Jett sat across from Matt, big, loud, and hungry; he had just turned sixteen-years-old on January 1st. Kaelin sat beside Matt; he was fifteen, with a sweet face and a quieter, but no less friendly, demeanor. They sat together, four rowdy teenagers eating and drinking and laughing, until they were shushed by the nearby tables. "Let's go down to the beach, they have music an' girls an' stuff," Jett suggested, winking suggestively. "She's fit," he pointed as they walked, "and her. What's wrong, mate, not interested? Got a girlfriend?" he nudged Al companionably.

"Something like that," Al confided.

Together they walked and laughed, telling stories, and drinking soda-pop because the hotel had a _very_ strict no underage drinking policy. The fun and fever of the tropical climate was inviting, and the steady beat of music was inspiring. Al dragged Matt around in fast circles, swinging him around on the sand; then he grabbed Kaelin and they pretended to waltz. Jett took Matt's waist in a tango and joined them. Al felt a sudden jolt of jealousy, but it quickly evaporated. Jett wasn't interested in Matt beyond friendship; his hitting on every girl on the beach made Al sure of it. "Like this," said Kaelin, distracting Al. The New Zealander—he and Jett were half-brothers—taught the American a new, fast-stepping dance, which required all of Al's focus. Even so, he tripped over his own feet and crashed into Matt and Jett, which sent all three of them to the ground. Fortunately, the sand was soft.

Despite the lavishness of the hotel—or, perhaps because of it—there weren't many other teenagers around to hang-out with, and so the four quickly became inseparable. Jett and Kaelin met the North Americans for breakfast the next morning, and then, with permission from two _very_ hung-over parents, hired a boat to take them scuba-diving. Jett was a natural in the water, a strong-swimmer and a water-sports enthusiast: "I'll teach you to surf," he suggested, renting four freshly waxed surfboards. Again Al felt a spark of jealousy as Jett held Matt's waist, helping him stand up on the board, but it dissipated when—unbalanced—Matt fell face-first into the water."You're such a liar," he said to Jett. "This isn't like snowboarding _at all_!"

It took several tries and the better part of an hour, but, eventually, Matt managed to stay standing on the board for approximately seven seconds—just long enough for Al to snap a photograph. "Thanks to my mad-awesome photography skills, you actually look like a pro," he showed Matt. "Right, Oz?"

Jett, waist-deep in water and carrying Kaelin on his shoulders, waded over. "Right on, mate. Total pro."

* * *

Matt was straddling Al's waist; Al's hard cock sunk deep inside Matt's body, when suddenly— KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Matt flinched and clenched Al's sweaty shoulders, stiffening as someone's fist rapped on the hotel room's door. He punched Al, who—head thrown back in ecstasy, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut; breathing hard—hadn't heard it. "_Wha_—?" He stopped moving, stomach muscles rippling. "Did you— put up the— DO NOT— DISTURB— sign?" he asked, panting. Matt nodded worriedly: _What if it's Dad or Papa_? Inhaling, Al yelled: "Who's there?"

"Jett. What're you guys doing? Let's go to the beach." He jiggled the door-handle, which was locked.

"It's"—Al glanced at the clock—"two in the fucking morning!"

"Yeah, so—? Kaelin and I found something we want to show you. C'mon!"

Al looked up at Matt, who shrugged. _Just get rid of them first_, he mouthed, wanting desperately to finish. He squirmed uncomfortably; Al bit his lip.

"_Yeah_," he gasped, "we'll be there in, like, ten minutes—"

"—fifteen!" Matt corrected.

* * *

You're going to love this," said Jett, jauntily leading the way.

"Uh huh," said Matt, feeling exasperated. But as they climbed over the rocks he saw what Jett was talking about: a beautiful, secluded white-sand beach, inaccessible by the road. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, the waves of high-tide lapping at the shore and sparkling in the moonlight; the perfect definition of "island paradise". "Okay," Matt relented, happily awestruck, "this is pretty cool." Following Jett's lead, he and Al striped off their t-shirts and waded into the water in their swim-trunks. "This feels _so_ good," he whispered to Al, splashing water up his thighs.

"C'mon," Kaelin waved. "You've got to see what we found. There's a coral reef just over here"—and, taking a deep breath, he dove beneath the surface.

Al kicked-up water as he dove, but Matt stopped: "Ah!" he yelled in panic, stumbling back. On a rock beside him slithered a tiny, worm-like brown snake.

"It's alright, Matt. It's just a snake," said Jett, whom Matt had crashed into. He grabbed Matt's shoulders—now pricked with goose-bumps—from behind to steady him. "Look, you scared it," he pointed at the snake's retreating tail. "It's leaving, going back into the trees. It won't hurt you."

"S-sorry," Matt felt his heart rate slowly decrease; he felt foolish. "I just have a little thing about snakes, it's... I really hate them," he admitted, shivering. Cautiously he eyed the dark water. "There aren't snakes in the water, are there?" Jett's pause was telling enough. "Oh God—"

"It's alright, Matt," Jett repeated. "You probably won't see one. Most snakes are timid of people, especially the few you'd find in Hawaii. C'mon," he released Matt. "I'll show you the reef."

Matt took a deep breath and followed Jett as he submerged. At first he saw nothing but silvery-blue water, his mind focused elsewhere, but then his vision cleared and he saw the reef: _This is amazing_! Matt thought, kicking in propulsion, forgetting his fear. Bright, spongy coral spiraled up from the ocean floor like towers, home to an array of colourful sea-life; schools of silvery fish, and big funny-shaped fish with bulging eyes; and insect-like creatures that crawled over the reef, hiding in the blossoms and seaweed. The moonlight was exceptionally bright, but Matt wondered how much more he would be able to see in the daylight. The water felt silky against his skin, moving gracelessly in twisting circles, feeling weightless. He watched Kaelin swim up to Al and impishly yank on his trunks, then kick-off when Al—retying his swim-trunks—started to chase him. Kaelin spun like a dolphin in the water, easily out-manoeuvring Al. He broke the surface, took in a deep breath, and then dove again; Al followed him, determined to catch the New Zealander. Matt watched them, weaving in and out of the reef, using it like an obstacle course—it was a massive structure. Kaelin's figure was slight, but even he had to wriggle through a narrow opening; scraping his shin. When Al tried to follow him he got stuck.

Like a film-reel, Matt watched his brother struggle, trying to pull himself forwards. When that failed he dived down in retreat, trying to escape the prison of coral from below, but he shoved his leg down too far. Matt watched in horror as Al tugged at his leg, drawing blood, and then clawed at the water, reaching desperately for the surface.

_Al_! Matt mouthed, swallowing water. In a panic he grabbed Al's forearms and tried to tug him up, kicking wildly with all of his strength, but the coral's sharp texture only tore at his skin; Al cringed. _Oh my God— this can't be happening_! Matt thought, feeling sick with fear. _He's drowning_!

Al's face was ghostly white and his mouth was open, gasping; a silent scream. His half-lidded eyes started to dull and his arms went slack, hanging in Matt's grasp.

Matt moved instinctually, propelled by something desperate and primordial; forgetting his fear and focusing on one vital detail: _Al needs oxygen_. Releasing his brother, Matt kicked hard for the surface. He gulped in a full, deep breath, sucking as much air into his lungs as possible, and then dove back down. Jett had a rock in his hand and was slamming it repeatedly against the coral encasing Al's leg, driving it like a hammer in an attempt to break it; Kaelin was nowhere to be seen. But Matt barely registered anything besides Al's deceptively calm face. He swam parallel to his brother and, taking his face in his hands, pressed his mouth against Al's and breathed. Al's eyes flickered and his chest expanded slightly. But Matt didn't wait. He hurried back up to the surface for another mouthful, feeling dizzy. By the fourth dive Jett had freed Al, and he and Matt dragged the unconscious American to the surface.

"He's— not— breathing!" Matt gasped, when they laid Al on the beach.

"Move," said Jett, shoving him aside. Like a lifeguard he checked Al's vitals, eyes searching. Then he pressed his palms flat against Al's chest and started to pump: once, twice, thrice— and, covering his nose, breathed life back into Al's mouth. He repeated this several times, performing CPR. Matt sat nearby, his fists clenched; feeling helpless. All he could do was pray: _Please Al, wake up. Don't be dead— don't be dead_!

Finally, Al coughed. He rolled over onto his stomach, violently throwing-up seawater, and then collapsed on the beach, breathing raggedly. Matt felt tears prick his eyes, so relieved. He wanted to touch Al; to hug him and kiss him and celebrate the fact that he was, in fact, alive. But he didn't move. He sat on his knees in the sand like a statue, sopping wet and shivering despite the heat; heart beating madly. He stared at his brother, watching the colour return to his cheeks, until someone suddenly grabbed his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" asked a uniformed Hawaiian; a coastguard. _Kaelin went for help_, Matt realized absently. "Hey— are you okay?" the man repeated, shaking Matt. Two fellow coastguards were checking Al's vitals, like Jett had done; Jett was talking rapidly to Kaelin.

"Oui," Matt said, slipping inadvertently into French. "Je vais bien."

* * *

Mon Dieu! What the fuck were you doing?!" Francis yelled, seizing the sides of Al's face and searching him for signs of abuse. Relieved, he pulled Al into a fierce hug, while raging: "I can't believe it. You stupid, reckless boy! I could've lost you!" He squeezed him, annoying the doctor, who was trying to clean and bandage Al's leg; it had been skinned, chewed-up by the reef.

"Everywhere we go," Arthur was muttering, pale-faced. "Do you have to get into trouble _everywhere_ we go?!"

Al shrugged, chin resting on Francis' shoulder. "Sorry."

Matt was sitting in the dead-centre of a bench, listening absently; staring vacantly. He couldn't get the image of Al drowning out of his head; of his brother's face, big-eyed and gasping—screaming in pain. It haunted him. _I won't sleep tonight_, he knew. Not with that image in his head. He had never been so scared in his life.

"Mathew?" Arthur leaned down. "Are you alright? You've been quiet-er than usual." Mutely, Matt nodded. But Arthur wasn't buying his charade. He sat down and wrapped his arm around Matt paternally, drawing him into a one-armed hug. "Alfred's fine, just cut-up a bit. Lucky those Aussie boys were with you; they saved his life."

Again Matt nodded, biting his lip.

Clean and bandaged, Al was instructed to stay off his leg and released from the hotel's infirmary. Matt helped Francis carry him back to their room, holding the brunt of Al's weight against his side as they helped him into bed. Al complained of feeling like an invalid, insisting that he needed no assistance, but it was only talk. He was hurting; Matt could see it. "You're _sure_ you'll be alright?" Arthur asked, fidgeting, tucking the blankets in around Al. "You've got everything you need? We're right next-door, okay? Mathew, if you need anything, just call us." He kissed Al's forehead and then left with Francis, who said: "Bonsoir, mes chéris."

"They're _so_ overdramatic," Al moaned, leaning back. "I mean, I was only dead for, like, a second," he joked, then stopped. "Mattie?"

Matt stood stiffly, his shoulders arched and fists clenched. He swallowed, trying to subdue the grief crawling up his throat, but couldn't. He gasped, shocking Al. "You scared the hell out of me," he said angrily, shaking his head. "Al, I thought you were going to drown. I thought you—" He pursed his lips; took a deep breath. Glaring at his brother, he said: "I've never been so scared in my whole fucking life. Don't _ever_ do something like that again, Al. I can't lose you, okay? Losing you would be the end of me."

To Matt's utter disbelief, Al smirked. "I know that you're sad right now," he said, gesturing for Matt to come closer. He took his brother's cold hand and squeezed gently. "But hearing you say that makes me happier than you can imagine, Mattie. Selfish, right? But I'm glad you'd miss me if I snuffed it—"

Matt yanked his hand back. "Do you think this is funny?!" he snapped, teary-eyed. "Do you think I'm joking? I watched you drowning, Al— and there was nothing I could do! If Jett and Kaelin hadn't been there, you'd be dead!"

Al's lips formed a perfect O. "Hey, c'mon," he coaxed. He pulled Matt down, forcing him into a tight embrace. "Calm down, I'm okay. Your heart's beating like mad," he said, rubbing Matt's back. "I would've drowned without you there. Yeah, Jett got me out and Kaelin brought help, but you kept me breathing, babe. Don't start to think that you're useless, Mattie. You might've been scared, but you kept your head; you did what needed to be done."

Matt clutched him, digging his fingers into the contours of Al's back. "Promise me something," he said softly. "Promise that you won't die until I'm dead and cold. Promise that I'll die first, because I can't do it again. I love you too much, I can't watch you die." He kissed his brother's neck, then his lips. "Please, promise me."

Al smiled and shook his head. "Not a chance, Mattie. When you go, I go." He shrugged, as if it had already been decided. "Losing you will kill me, plain and simple. And I'm okay with that."

"You're an idiot," said Matt, matter-of-fact. "How about a counter proposal? We die together, at the exact same time. Swear it?" he asked, holding up his pinky.

"Yeah, okay. I swear," Al agreed. They locked pinkies in good-faith, then they locked lips. "But let's plan that for the future. I'm talking hovercrafts and silver jumpsuits," Al added, lying down beside Matt. "I love you, Mattie."

"I love you too— even though you scare the hell out of me. You're not invincible, you know."

Al feigned shock: "_What_?! I think you're forgetting, babe, that, while I may not be a superhero yet, someday I _will_ play one on T.V."

"Of course," Matt agreed. "As long as I can be your stunt-double and protect you from harm."

"Actually, I've had second-thoughts about that. I don't want to risk anything happening to your pretty face," he said, touching Matt's cheek. "I think I want you looking your best when you accompany me down the Red Carpet."

"You're an idiot," Matt repeated.

"But you love me. You've already said it— twice. You can't take it back now."

* * *

"Sweet as, mate. Nice battle wound," said Jett, studying Al's bandaged leg in admiration. "So I guess this means you can't come rock-climbing? Too bad. Kaelin and I'll meet you for tea later. Matt, keen to come with us?"

"No thanks," Matt said too quickly. Then, noting the curious—slightly hurt—look on Jett's face, he added: "Sorry, but I think I'd rather stay here with Al. He's such a baby when he's hurt."

Al frowned, but Jett nodded in understanding. "Sure thing. C'mon, Kaelin."

"Hope you feel better, Al," said Kaelin as they left.

Al and Matt spent the morning lounging in the sunshine, until Matt started to feel lightheaded. He had already nearly suffered heatstroke on the first day, so Al suggested they get something cold to drink—"I like the pink drinks with the little umbrellas"—and go inside to play games. "I think they've got table-tennis, and pool, and air-hockey and stuff," he said. He swung his arm over Matt's shoulders and let his brother help him up, bracing his weight against Matt's side (he had refused crutches when offered). "I already look like a fucking invalid," he complained.

Matt shrugged. "We're on vacation in Hawaii, they probably just think you're drunk."

They ordered several virgin drinks and then Matt proceeded to hammer Al at air-hockey. Al insisted that his injury was to blame for Matt's overwhelming victory, but his brother only grinned. "Yeah, whatever," Al sulked. "But I'd be killing you if this was foosball!" They met Jett and Kaelin for supper and then sat on the patio playing several rounds of euchre. "Oh, c'mon!" Al yelled at Jett, his partner. "This sucks, I'm losing at everything today— my awesomeness has been compromised!" It was half-past one in the morning when Matt hauled Al up: "Piggyback!" Al hugged Matt's neck as Matt stumbled to the elevator. "G'night Oz, Kiwi," he waved. The doors closed.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Matt advised, as Al sucked on his neck. Clumsily he carried Al from the elevator to their hotel room, kicking the door closed behind him. He tried to drop Al onto his bed, but Al pulled Matt down with him. "Al, stop it—"

"C'mon, Mattie. You want to ruin my _whole_ vacation? It's just my leg— it doesn't even hurt," he lied, slipping his hands up Matt's shirt; tugging it off overhead. He kissed Matt's jaw, then his neck and collarbone. "C'mon, babe. I know you want to," he teased. Matt's heartbeat had increased; skin flushed; cock growing hard in excitement. "I want you too," Al said huskily, grinding his cock against Matt's thigh. "Don't worry. I'll be totally fine."

* * *

What the bloody-hell were you doing?" Arthur sighed, watching the doctor unwrap Al's bloody bandage. The stitches in his leg had—_somehow_—torn and the wound had reopened. Al shrugged his shoulders, then hissed in pain when the bandaged was removed. His leg was slippery with blood and flaps of unhealed skin. Arthur shook his head. "Alfred, _what_ were you doing?" he repeated. "The doctor told you not to—"

"I know. It was an accident," Al said. It wasn't entirely untrue. He smiled up at his father, trying to convey innocence, but Arthur frowned unhappily. It was only when he turned his head that Al noticed the pale bruise on the Englishman's neck. _Is that a hickey_? he realized, feeling disturbed. Now, at least, he understood why Arthur looked so put-off by being dragged to the infirmary at two o'clock in the morning. _So while I was fucking Matt_, _tearing my leg open_, _right next-door Dad and Papa were_— Al stopped, refusing to acknowledge that his parents had been fooling around at the exact same time he and Matt had. _Bla_! —he shivered in revulsion. It was then that Francis and Matt returned, holding four cups of steaming coffee. Al examined Francis suspiciously: curls tousled and lips raw. And then Matt, whose skin was still flushed. He would never have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for similarities, but Matt had a hickey in almost the exact same place as Arthur. It was so ridiculous that Al laughed. His family stared at him.

"It's the painkillers," the doctor suggested.

_Yes_, Al smiled, _get me some painkillers so I can forget this scarring encounter_. _God_,_ our family's fucked-up_.

* * *

Five days, all-inclusive, ended too soon, and—despite several trips to the infirmary—Al was sorry to be saying goodbye to Hawaii and his new friends. "You've got my phone number right, Oz?" he asked Jett, double-checking his contacts.

"Yeah. And you've got Kaelin's Skype account info, right Matt? You've got to come stay with us if you're ever in Australia, mate." Jett drew Matt into a hug, slapping him companionably on the back; then he hugged Al.

"Safe flight," said Kaelin, clasping Matt's hand. "Don't get into anymore trouble, kay?" he added, eyeing Al. Matt had a sneaking suspicion that Kaelin had puzzled out Matt and Al's secret relationship, but, fortunately, hadn't said anything to his brother or anyone else. Matt wondered if Kaelin wasn't a lot smarter than he let on, and he found himself sad to be leaving the two brothers behind. "All the best," Kaelin wished them sincerely, and then left with Jett.

Matt boarded the plane with his family and then served as a pillow for Al, who fell asleep almost instantly. _He can sleep anywhere_, Matt thought affectionately, _especially in moving vehicles_. Even though there was more than enough room to stretch-out in first-class, Al lay sprawled over his seat; legs kicked over the armrest and head resting on Matt. Five hours later they landed in Los Angeles and Matt nudged Al awake. His brother yawned like a tomcat, feeling refreshed, while Matt felt tired. The foursome had supper at LAX airport and then boarded another plane that took them home to New York City. Matt and Al had one last day together and then it was time for Matt to leave again for Ottawa. They would only spend a month apart—Matt would be home for Easter—but leaving Al was never easy.

"Remember our deal?" Matt asked. Indicatively, he glanced from Al's leg to his eyes: _Don't die without me_.

"Of course. I promised, didn't I? Love you, Mattie," Al kissed him in farewell.

"Love you too, Al."


	10. Chapter Nine

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**NINE**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**SUMMER 2013**

Al and Matt managed to keep their illicit relationship a secret from everyone—except for a young New Zealander eighty-nine thousand miles away—for seven months. Then, less cautious and too invested in each other, they began to get cocky. They took advantage of the empty house whenever their parents were gone; they stole quick kisses when their friends weren't looking; and Al's car became nothing less than a bedroom-on-wheels. The forbidden aspect of their relationship lent spice to the fun; it got both of their hearts pounding and made every touch and kiss special because they never knew when they'd get another chance. It kept the novelty of the relationship alive, and the possibility of getting caught—while terrifying—was exciting. Or, that's what Al had always thought.

Al and Matt had a joint party for their seventeenth birthday (Matt's idea, which Al begrudgingly agreed to). They invited their friends to the Long Beach house and lit a huge bonfire by the water (special permission required). It was a night to be remembered, though few of them could. Al spent the first half of the night swimming and shouting and laughing and drinking, and the second half goading Matt into the boathouse: "C'mon, babe. Nobody's going to know. They won't even notice that we're gone," he insisted, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. The beach was loud and littered with empty cans; the bonfire was roaring—Mikkel took a running start and jumped over it, landing in a summersault on the other side to several cheers; Antonio was waist-deep in water with Lovino on his shoulders, who was trying to knock Tino off of Berwald's shoulders; Eliza and Laura were swinging their hips in time to the blaring music, while Feliciano tired to get Ludwig's attention, but Ludwig, Gil, and Lars were invested in a beer-chugging contest. Satisfied that he had made his point, Al pulled Matt into the boathouse and closed the door.

"_Mm_,_ Al_," Matt moaned into Al's lips. They had each other half-undressed—Al straddling Matt in the back of Arthur's very expensive, very high-performance speedboat—when a big shadow suddenly fell over them.

"_What the fuck are you doing_?!"

Al's stomach jumped into his throat; his blood went cold. _Oh fuck_! He would've recognized that thick brogue anywhere. White-faced, but feigning bravery, he looked up and saw: "Uncle Scottie. What're you doing here?"

Dumbfounded, Allistor stared at his nephews in horror. Al wiped a small string of saliva from his chin."Are you mad?!" the Scotsman shouted. "What are you—?" He reached forward to pull them apart, but stopped, fearing proximity. He flexed his fingers, ran a hand through his red hair, and inhaled. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"

"Please don't tell our parents!" Matt interrupted. "I know it looks weird, but it's not a bad thing. We're just—"

"_Fucking each other_?!"

Both boys flinched. "Scottie, not so loud!" Al snapped, casting a nervous glance at the door. He could feel Matt's palpitating heartbeat; could feel the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathed. Clumsily Al climbed off of Matt and leapt out of the boat, wearing only his swim-trunks and a ripe hickey. He raised his hands, as if approaching a wild animal, and said: "Mattie and I are, well... we're not related by blood, so it's okay. And I love him."

Allistor was staring at Al as if he was a two-headed alien. "How long?" he choked out.

Al glanced at Matt. Quietly Matt said: "Since New Year's." Pause. "Please, Scottie. Don't tell anyone. Dad and Papa aren't ready to know. We'll tell them eventually," he promised, climbing to his knees. "Just not yet."

"It's fucking weird," Allistor said, exhaling deeply. He glared at his nephews, as if they had committed a great crime; for keeping such a thing secret from him. But, with a little coaxing and a lot of begging, he finally consented to keep their secret. Al and Matt were his only nephews, after all, and he loved them more than he wanted to admit (love stretched to include a magnitude of abnormalities). "Fine," he grumbled unhappily. "It's your business, not my secret to tell. But you'd better tell your Da soon and hope he doesn't have a fucking heart-attack," he said, looking at them: half-naked and scared, but determined. "I hope you know what you're doing.

"By the way," he added, pausing at the door. "The next time you want to fuck each other in the boathouse, don't turn on the fucking light. It might not be me who catches you next time." Al saw the ghost of a smile tug at Allistor's lips before the Scotsman flicked off the light, leaving the boys in darkness.

* * *

Matt awoke early the next morning and was about to make a pot of coffee, when he saw Lars standing outside on the balcony, smoking a cigarette in solitude. Stretching his arms overhead, he joined him; the morning air was crisp, but it felt good. "My head's killing me," he said in greeting, leaning against the railing.

"Uh huh, I bet," said Lars stoically. He lifted the cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before blowing it out. He kept his sage-green eyes on the horizon, without looking at Matt as he talked. Finally, after a period of silence that—for whatever reason—made Matt uncomfortable, Lars said "Matt" in a way that drew Matt's attention. _Is he mad about something_? he wondered. The Dutchman took a drag, and then stubbed out the cigarette on the balcony railing. "I'm only going to ask you this once and I don't want you to lie." Deliberately Lars looked at Matt, and said: "It's Al, isn't it? The guy you're in love with is Al."

Momentarily stunned, Matt stared at Lars' impassive face. "I—" Glancing behind him, he closed the doors so that nobody else could hear; it was just he and Lars on the balcony, without secrets. "Yes. But please don't tell anyone. I know it's a little strange"—Lars exhaled in derision: "_pah_!"—"but yes, it's true. How did you know?"

"I suspected, but I also thought I was mad for thinking so." He shrugged. "Then I saw you two sneak off last night. Actually, you're lucky I'm the _only_ one who saw you. A secret, huh?"

Matt sighed. "Yeah, drunk and horny aren't great secret-keepers," he admitted. "We just got carried away."

Lars nodded. He pulled another cigarette from the pack in his pocket, lit it, and sucked in deeply, facing the water. Matt folded his arms over the railing, keeping a space between he and Lars, feeling awkward. From the corner of his eye he could see his friend—his best friend, besides Al—and hated the hurt look on the Dutchman's face. But he was also selfishly glad that Lars knew now; he disliked keeping secrets from his friend. "You know," he said hesitantly, "in the beginning I didn't want to feel this way. I tried really hard not to, to make it stop. I thought that if I kept away from Al the feeling would go away, but..."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Lars quoted, taking a drag. He glanced at Matt.

Matt nodded. "Something like that." He swallowed, unsure if he should admit: "I wanted to want you." That got Lars' attention. "I knew that you liked me, and I liked you too. You're smart, athletic, good-looking, and we always have so much fun together; we like so many of the same things. And I wouldn't have felt guilty for wanting you, Lars."

"But—?"

Coyly, Matt shrugged. "It's always been Al," he said simply. "It wouldn't have been right to lie to you. I know it's strange, maybe wrong, but Al's the one I love. I can't help it," he smiled nervously. "I don't think it was coincidence that we became brothers, I think we belong together. I'm sorry."

Lars blew-out smoke. He studied Matt's face, searching for falsities. "Are you happy, Mattie?"

"Yes."

"Then don't be sorry." Lars gave him a rare smile and wrapped an arm around Matt's shoulders fraternally. "The heart wants what the heart wants, right? You're my friend, Mattie. Before anything else, I want you to be happy."

Matt smiled, feeling like a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had finally been lifted. "You're just full of wisdom today, aren't you?" he teased.

"It's the hangover."

* * *

Matt wasn't going to tell Al about Lars. He didn't want to worry his brother—first Allistor, now Lars—but decided that Al had a right to know. He just hoped Al would take the news kindly, and not use it to fuel his one-sided rivalry with the Dutchman. Al was in the kitchen, half-buried in the refrigerator. "Sup?" he asked, standing up; a strawberry pop-tart clenched between his teeth.

"Let's go for a walk," Matt suggested.

As they walked along the shoreline, seagulls wheeling overhead, Matt told Al about Lars' confession; that he had seen them together last night. "But he's not a gossip, I know he won't tell anyone," Matt promised.

Al snorted. "Of course he won't tell. The object of his affection is fucking his own brother; would you hurry to tell anyone that?" Matt chose to ignore the subtle jab at his friend. Arguing with Al wouldn't make the unflattering remark any less true. "Honestly, I don't care," Al continued, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt-loops. "The way you two carry on, whispering to each other like girls, I'm surprised he doesn't know the size of my dick." He grinned sideways at Matt, who frowned.

"Al, don't be a jerk," said Matt defensively. "I haven't told Lars anything about us. He saw us last night, just like Scottie did. I told you we shouldn't have snuck off to the boathouse, but—"

"Yeah whatever," Al dismissed. He was acting surprisingly cavalier about the whole ordeal, which made Matt nervous. "Actually, I've been thinking"—_here it comes_, Matt braced himself—"If people are starting to suspect us, why not just tell everyone now? I'm mean, fuck it— Let's just tell Dad and Papa tonight and get it over with, then it doesn't matter who else knows, right?"

Matt grabbed Al's shoulder, stopping him. "Are you mad?!" he snapped suddenly; too harshly, but Al quickly recovered. "We're lucky it's Scottie and Lars and not someone with a bigger mouth, because this _isn't_ something I'm ready to share yet. Dad and Papa are going to totally flip-shit when they find out! That's why I want to wait—"

"For what?" asked Al seriously. "Do you think that lying to them for a few more months is going to make a difference? Matt, their sons are fucking each other," he shrugged, matter-of-fact. "I _really_ don't think waiting is going to make it any less horrifying. C'mon, babe," he said, taking Matt's waist in his hands. "I don't want to hide anymore. I don't care if it's weird for everyone else. Scottie and Lars survived; Dad and Papa will too. I don't care who knows about us." He leaned in to kiss Matt, but Matt turned his face away. Al pressed his lips to Matt's neck. "Mattie?"

"Stop it," Matt said, pushing Al off. He felt guilty—Al looked hurt—but he was afraid they would be seen. And that was exactly the problem: "It's the way they look at us when they find out," he admitted. "Like we've disappointed them, or like we're terrible people who've done something wrong. I hate that judgmental look, Al. Like they're all so fucking perfect, like they've never made a mistake—" He stopped, looking quickly at Al. "That came out wrong. You're not a mistake, Al. That's not what I meant. It's just that— _fuck_," he cursed, biting his lip. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm trying to say." Frustrated, he raked a hand through his curls, letting his shoulders sink. He felt Al's body against his, back-to-chest; felt Al's chin on his shoulder. Matt swallowed. "I love you, Al. That won't ever change. But I'm not ready to tell anyone. I can't just say: _Fuck it_ and not care what Dad and Papa will think. I'm sorry."

Al sighed; Matt felt his hot breath. "You care too much about what everyone else thinks," he said. "Ever since we were kids, you were always so shy; so afraid of saying the wrong thing, so you didn't speak at all. It's why everyone forgot about you, why they never remembered your name."

Matt frowned. "Reminding me of how timid and forgettable I used to be, maybe still am? What a weird way to kick me when I'm down," he said sarcastically.

"_I _always remembered you, Matt. _I_ always included you," Al said, as if Matt hadn't spoken. "So why won't you acknowledge me now?" Rather abruptly, he pulled away; circled Matt to face him. "It's been fun, but I don't want to sneak around anymore. It feels like we're doing something we shouldn't, and I don't like that. I want to be like Eliza and Roderick and go out on real dates. I want to kiss you in public and not care who's fucking watching, like Feliciano does with Ludwig. I'm not ashamed of us, Matt. I want to tell and I don't want you to be afraid."

Matt stiffened. "I'm not afraid," he said, folding his arms.

Al cocked his head. "You're doubtful. You need to stop worrying and just get it over with. Just do it—"

"And you need to stop pushing me," Matt said, avoiding Al's touch. "I would _never_ force you to do something you were this uncomfortable with."

"Wrong," Al countered, growing impatient. "That's _exactly_ what you're doing now, wanting to keep secrets. You know how bad a fucking secret-keeper I am! Do you know how hard it is not to gloat about this? Do you have any idea how badly I want to brag that you're mine, especially to fucking Gil? See, Mattie, it's easy for you. You go off to an all-boys school for months at a time where relationships are kept secret, while I stay here watching everyone else flirt; listening to everyone else's stories about dating and break-ups and falling in love. And I know that I should be happy for my friends, and I am for the most part. But it kills me that I can't tell them— like you wanted to tell Lars. I know it's stupid and selfish, but, while everyone else is yammering on about their relationships, I'm the only one who's not allowed to say: Hey, I've got the best fucking guy in the world!" Al sighed, as if he had been nervous to voice it, but felt better now that he had. "I don't want anything to ruin this," he said, more softly. "I'm not trying to pressure you, I just wish you'd realize that what everyone else thinks doesn't matter because _I_ love you."

"I know you do," Matt relented. He wrapped his arms around Al's middle, squeezing gently, and laid his head against Al's chest; Al held him, resting his chin on Matt's head. "I'm not trying to hurt you, but _please_ just leave it for a little while longer. As soon as we tell everyone, it'll change things whether you want it to or not. I like that it's just us right now; our secret. Please Al, let it be just us for a little longer."

* * *

Several days later, Al and Matt were lounging in the sunshine on the beach-house's balcony, Al's head resting sleepily in Matt's lap. Arthur and Francis were bickering inside, disagreeing on cooking methods—"Salt's not the only damned ingredient!" Francis yelled—when Matt's cell-phone buzzed. "It's Gil," Al said, handing it to Matt.

"Salut, comment allez-vous?" said Matt, then habitually held the phone at arm's length. Al heard Gil's angry reply: "You know I don't speak fucking French, Mattie!" Matt laughed. "Yeah, I know. What's up, Gil?" Al rolled over and closed his eyes. He hugged Matt's waist, burrowing his nose into his brother's stomach and grabbing at his ribs, knowing that Matt was ticklish. Matt swatted at him. "Tonight? Sure, let me just— Al, fuck off!" he snapped. "Hold on, Gil, I'll ask. Al, everyone's going uptown tonight, bar-hopping. Do you want to go?"

"Yeah, sure," said Al, grinning. "Sounds like fun."

They told their parents they were going to the Beilschmidt house for the night; Arthur and Francis pretended to believe them—pretended _not_ to notice the forty Al stole from Arthur's liquor cabinet—and off they went. They took the subway to Union Station. It was a crowded Friday night and every train-car was filled-to-bursting. Al held onto the overhead bar to keep his balance, and Matt stuck his hands in Al's pockets, leaning into him when the car swayed. They met their friends at Union Station—Gil, Ludwig, Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio, Eliza and Roderick (both Van den Berg's had to work)—and proceeded to survey the bars they knew would serve them underage. With Gil and Antonio's help, the high-schoolers were admitted to a racy, underground scene with black-lights and two-dollar shots. It was a loud place crowded with sweaty, gyrating bodies and cigarette smoke. They had only been there fifteen minutes when Feliciano was hounded by a big, tattooed stranger and dragged off the dance floor.

Ah! Germany—!" he shouted, looking scared. Al had never seen Ludwig's face change so quickly from happily buzzed to blatant rage. He forced his way through the throng and grabbed the stranger's shoulder, turning him. There was a brief moment of indecision before the stranger swung his fist up to deck Ludwig in the face, but Gil caught the blow, wine-red eyes alight with maniacal glee. _Alright_! Al thought, watching the spectacle, _fight_! However, faced with the two angry-looking Germans, the stranger released Feliciano and slunk off. Feliciano dove into Ludwig's arms and hugged him; Ludwig suggested they get a shot. Gil looked almost as disappointed as he was, Al thought. _Oh_, _wait_—

Lovino was yelling at a dark-skinned bouncer, effectively aggravating him, while Antonio tried to relax him. Feeling fueled, Gil swooped in to defend his friends—readying for a fight—but Antonio succeeded in speaking logic to Lovino and drew both he and Gil away. _This is a really seedy joint_, Al thought, watching Eliza throw her drink on a middle-aged woman (_old cougar_), who was flirting with Roderick. As he scanned his friends, he suddenly realized: "We're really possessive of each other, aren't we?" He looked from left-to-right, but Matt wasn't beside him. "Mattie?"

"Your friend is there," said a stranger with a Russian accent. "That is him, da?" He pointed to the bar, where Matt and Gil were trying to get served. "He is cute," he said, lighting a cigarette. Inconsiderately he blew-out smoke into Al's face. "Is he with you?" His eyes sized-up Al, raking him lustily from head to toe, and touched the cigarette to his lips. "You are cute too. Want to get your friend and come with me?"

Al gaped at the Russian's casualness. "Go with you, like—?"

"To have sex," he spelled-out, blowing smoke.

"Uh, no thanks," Al said awkwardly, feeling somehow already violated. "I'm going to go over there now—"

The big, pale Russian grabbed his bicep; his grasp was like iron. "I hate you Americans. You are all teases," he said. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it under his boot. "So flighty."

"Hey, _what the fuck_?! Let go!" Al snapped, trying to tug himself free. "This is fucking harassment, dude!"

The Russian laughed, a low, growling sound. "Americans," he repeated, "so quick to overreact."

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

Al recognized Matt's voice—usually soft—shouting over the music's din. He and Gil were glaring suspiciously at the Russian; Gil cracked his knuckles in anticipation. "Al, are you alright?"

Al yanked himself free. He didn't like the lecherous look on the Russian's smiling face, now focused on Matt. Deliberately he stepped between the Russian and his brother, playing hero. He wasn't expecting the Russian to make a rude gesture and say:

"Let me fuck both you Americans. You"—his eyes flickered to Al—"look like you could use a good, hard fuck."

Angrily, Al was about to retort, when Matt's fist flew past him like a whip and cracked the Russian in the jaw. He stumbled back, stunned. Al and Gil stood shocked as well. "That was uncalled for," Matt said, seething offensively. "Apologise to my brother."

Al sucked in his breath: _Mattie, what are you doing— this guy's fucking insane_!

The big Russian was staring hard at Matt, challenging him; his ice-cold violet eyes were glaring lethally at— _ice-cold violet eyes_, Al realized in shock. _T__hey've got the same eyes_. Except that Matt's were usually non-threatening._ Not right now_. The Russian was terrifying. Intimidated, Al stepped back in reflex, but Matt didn't move. Coldly, he repeated: "Apologise_— now_."

The Russia grinned, rubbing his jaw. He said: "Sorry." Then he slipped another cigarette between his teeth and stalked off, casting an amused glance over his shoulder.

Matt relaxed, his shoulders visibly sinking. Al took his hand and dragged him through the back exit, into an adjacent ally. "Mattie—" he started, then noticed that Gil had followed them out.

"Okay, what was that?" he asked, pointing between them. "Is there something going on between you two?" Al and Matt started talking at once, trying to explain, but Gil held up his hands. "Let's try that again," he said, eyeing the teenagers. He pointed at Matt: "That wasn't a you-insulted-my-bruder punch, that was an I'm-defending-my-lover punch. I know. I've seen my little bruder punch enough people for Feliciano, even _before_ they started dating. I know what it looks like. So— what the fuck?"

Again, both Kirkland-Bonnefoi brothers started talking at once:

"It just sort of happened. We're not blood related, and it's not like we were expecting to—"

"Yes, we've been together for a while, but please don't tell anyone—"

And again Gil silenced them: "Alright, never-mind. I guess it makes sense," he feigned a sigh of defeat, "why you could resist the awesome me for so long. I can't say I agree with your taste," he smirked at Matt, "but don't worry. You can wipe those scared looks off your faces. It's weird as fuck—you two being together—but I won't tell anyone. I'm not a fucking gossip," he said, flicking Al's forehead good-naturedly. Then added: "But if you want to keep it a secret I'd steer clear of Antonio and Lovino for a while."

Al frowned, but said: "Thanks, Gil."

"Yeah, yeah." Gil rolled his eyes, folding his arms behind his head. "What would you kids do without me?"

* * *

The summer ended—too soon as always—and, after a heartfelt goodbye, Matt found himself driving back to Ottawa with Arthur. He kicked his feet up on the dashboard, playing with the radio dials until Arthur got annoyed: "Stop that, and put your feet down," he said, re-tuning the satellite radio, searching for a station that _wasn't_ in French. "Bloody git," he complained, "he's erased all of the channels I had saved." Satisfied with an Oldies station playing British rock, he glanced at Matt. "Something on your mind, love?"

Matt shrugged. It was the first time in three years that the backseat was empty. Lars had graduated from high-school in June and, as Matt was driving back to Ottawa, he was flying to the Netherlands to spend the year working on his family's farm to earn some money before applying to University. It would be strange returning to school this year without Lars, walking into a dorm full of strangers. Matt was the youngest of his schoolmates, and now, entering twelfth grade, he was the only one left. He would see them all during breaks, of course—most of them were attending University in the New England states—but he knew this year at boarding-school would be lonely without them. Al had promised to take Matt's calls no matter what time it was: "As long as you're not calling for a 2AM pick-up," he joked, then added soberly: "But seriously, I'll always answer."

"Dad," Matt asked, tying his hoodie-strings into intricate knots. "How did you and Papa"—he wasn't exactly sure how to breach the sensitive topic—"get together?"

Arthur blinked, casting him a sideways glance. "What's this all of a sudden? You know the story, Mathew. I'm sure Francis has told you before: It was at a concert, before you were born— and that's the end of it," he added, eyeing Matt defensively. Al and Matt (and Francis) had teased Arthur enough times about his "band".

"No. That's not what I..." Pause. "I just meant..."

"Mathew? What is it you're asking, love?"

Matt shifted, tying knots. "Well, Uncle Scottie told us that you and Papa were together for a long time before you told anyone, right? I guess I just want to know why."

"Oh, well... because we weren't ready to tell. It's hard to explain," he tried, licking his lips. "I suppose we didn't want to tell anyone until we were certain of it ourselves, and _that_ took us rather a long time. It's hard to know if what you're feeling really is love, and not just—"

"Lust?" Matt guessed.

Arthur cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable. "Yes, exactly. But why the sudden curiosity, Mathew? Why ask me all this now?" Matt shrugged; he didn't want to lie. "Are you—?" Arthur glanced quickly between Matt and the highway. "Is there someone I should know about?"

Matt almost laughed out loud; instead, it came out as a snort. "No. I was just curious. That's all."

Arthur narrowed his forest-green eyes. "Uh huh. I'll pretend I believe you. Oh— there's the Tim Horton's. Do you want an ice-coffee?"

* * *

**OTTAWA**

**SEPTEMBER 2013**

As luck would have it, Matt's new roommate was not a stranger, as he had feared, but young Sigurour Thomassen— Bjørn's thirteen-year-old half-brother. An exceptionally bright boy, he had graduated middle-school a year early and was now attending the same boarding-school his older brother had. He wasn't the friendliest of boys; his demeanour was rather cold and isolated, but he was polite. Honestly, Matt saw an uncanny resemblance between him and Bjørn, which he didn't mention. Especially since Bjørn and Berwald were there as well, helping Sigurour move-in.

"School doesn't start for us until next week," Bjørn explained, habitually re-tying Sigurour's uniform tie. The later looked quite put-off by the babying, but he didn't move to complain. "Come on, let's get your ID," Bjørn said, and together they left, Sigurour avoiding Bjørn's fraternal touch: "Stop it, I'm not a baby!"

Matt left to talk to the Resident Advisor—he _really_ wanted a coffee-maker in his room this year. When he returned to the dorm-room, defeated in his attempt, Berwald was unpacking a box of Sigurour's school supplies. The Swede had always been quiet, but Matt knew not to take his social-awkwardness as a sign of dislike. Berwald glanced up briefly and pointed to Matt's desk, where his cell-phone was lying. "Your boyfriend called," he said nonchalantly.

Matt froze. "My— _what_?!" Berwald waved to the cell-phone, which Matt lunged to grab. He looked at the list of MISSED CALLS and realized that the most recent had come from Al. "You mean my brother?" he corrected.

Berwald unpacked a desk-lamp, unconcerned. "Isn't it the same thing?"

Matt swallowed; clenched his fist around the cell-phone. "You know," he said, trying to keep the panic and anger from his voice, "that jab is getting really old. Yeah, Al and I spend a lot of time together— it's really funny," he said humourlessly. "It's a great joke, isn't it? But could you please stop?"

Berwald blinked at him. "What joke? Oh!"—realization lit his stoic face—"Is it supposed to be a secret? I'm sorry, Matt. I didn't know."

"What—? No! There's nothing to know. I just—" Matt's felt himself blush guiltily. Alarmed by Matt's reaction, Berwald stood up. But not knowing what to do, he just stared. "Who else have you told?" Matt asked. It was too late to deny it, he realized. "And how long are you known?" _Did Lars tell him_?! he worried, feeling momentarily betrayed.

Berwald shook his head. "Why would I tell anyone? I didn't know it was such a big deal." He shrugged. "I've known since... I don't know, probably first year?"

The confession shocked Matt. "What?!" he snapped, unintentionally loud. "_I_ didn't even know in first year! How the bloody-hell could _you_ have known?!"

"I'm sorry, Matt," said the Swede, taken off-guard; he had never seen Matt so worked-up outside the hockey rink. "I didn't mean to upset you. Is something wrong?" he asked, cocking his blonde head.

"Is something—? I'm in love with my brother, what do you think?!" Matt's heart was pounding, but he didn't know why. _Why am I getting so worked-up_? _Is it because everyone knows_? It was exactly what Matt had been afraid of, everyone uncovering his and Al's secret, and— _What_? _Scottie, Lars, Gil_,_ they all promised to keep it secret_,_ and it's not like they're chastising us_. Lars had always been Matt's confidant, and—despite his loud-mouthed tendencies—Gil had actually covered for Al and Matt when Antonio enquired where they had gone. _And Berwald has known for three years, but he hasn't said anything. Maybe I _am_ making a bigger deal out of this than it is._ Cautiously he looked at Berwald, and said: "I'm sorry, I'm just not myself right now. I've got a lot on my mind."

"It's okay," Berwald shrugged. "Love is complicated."

Matt smiled in agreement. "Yeah, tell me about it. I just wish that Al and I weren't brothers."

"No you don't," said Berwald, surprising Matt. His tone was matter-of-fact: "If that was true then you would have to give up your childhood together, all the memories; your whole family. You're only focusing on the bad and forgetting all of the wonderful things about your relationship. You're lucky, Matt. You've fallen in love with your best friend. People dream of doing that, and it happened so naturally for you." He paused, staring intently at Matt. "Do you think we get to choose who we fall in love with? Do you think I would have chosen my own roommate?" he said, using he and Tino as an example.

Matt sighed. "It still seems a lot more convenient than your brother."

"No," Berwald denied. "You're wrong. It's the hardest thing to do— and I know you understand what I mean. Wanting to hug and kiss and touch him, but being unable to do so because you don't want to scare him; because you don't want to ruin the friendship; feeling terrified that he'll somehow find out and reject you, maybe hate you?" He shook his head. "Falling in love with your best friend is really hard; I didn't say it was easy. But it _is_ worth it."

"And everyone else?" Matt asked. He couldn't help it, the doubt was eating at him. "What do you do about everyone who disapproves? How do you cushion the blow?"

"You don't," Berwald said simply. "You tell them you're in love, that's all you _can_ do. You can't stop feeling what you feel, right? Who cares what everyone else thinks? You shouldn't ever be ashamed of what you love, Matt; it's like being ashamed of who you are. And, trust me, the more you like yourself the less you're like anyone else; that's what makes each of us unique. That's where happiness comes from. The people who really love you aren't going to care— heck, they might even be happy for you," he smiled. "But you have to give them a chance to prove it."

Matt returned Berwald's smile with a hesitant grin. He had been worrying about his relationship for months, and—even though countless people had tried to reassure him; Al most often—nobody had ever phrased it in such a simple, straightforward way before. Suddenly, looking at the Swede's open face, everything made sense. "Thanks," he said gratefully. "Really, I— I wish I could see things the way you do. You're really observant, Berwald."

"No," Berwald said, returning to Sigurour's boxes. "I'm just honest."

* * *

Matt took his cell-phone into the empty common-room and dialed Al's number. He waited briefly, feeling confident for the first time in months. Al picked up on the first ring: "Mattie? I called earlier but you weren't—"

"Al, I'm ready to tell Dad and Papa," he interrupted. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I want us to be official," he laughed; he hadn't realized he was smiling. "When I come home for Christmas, let's tell them together. Everyone."

"Mattie, I— yeah, sounds great!" Al celebrated. "What made you finally change your mind?"

Matt felt foolish now for feeling afraid: _I love Al_, _that's what matters_! He thought of Berwald's honest face, and the shameless, unconditional love he had for Tino; their relationship really was inspiring. And he thought of Arthur's subliminal advice: _Before you commit, be sure that it's really love, not lust. Be sure it can last_. His parents; he should have looked to them sooner—there was no stranger couple, but, somehow, they were perfect together. "I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner," he repeated. "But I get it now. I've talked to the right people."

"Okay," said Al, sounding confused but happy. "Does this epiphany of yours also include what we're actually going to say to Dad and Papa? You know, so they don't go into cardiac-arrest?"

"No, I have no idea," Matt replied. "But we've got four months to think about it. You want to be an actor, Al. Start scripting a monologue."


	11. Chapter Ten

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**TEN**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**DECEMBER 2013**

Matt stepped off the airplane at JFK Airport, practically ran through the customs line to the Arrival's Lounge, and threw himself into Al's waiting arms. Three months apart felt like a long time, since Matt had spent his Thanksgiving break in Ottawa studying for mid-terms. But he was home now. Not New York City; not his parents' penthouse, but this right here—in Al's arms, _this_ was home. Al lifted Matt's satchel over his shoulder, keeping an arm wrapped around him, and led Matt into the underground. He tossed the satchel into the car's back, then got into the driver's seat, leaned over, and pulled Matt into a deep, long-awaited kiss. "I hate when you're gone," he said huskily, then kissed him again. "Promise you'll— go to— Uni— versity— here."

Arthur and Francis made a fuss when they got home, both hugging Matt; asking after his flight. He and Al were ushered into the parlour, where Allistor and Dylan were sitting, already red-cheeked with holiday toasts. Allistor pulled Matt into a bone-crushing hug and snapped his fingers at Arthur: "C'mon, pour the lads a drink, Artie." As he released Matt he gave him a pointed look, glancing from him to Al, and smirked in confidence. Matt returned the gesture, while praying that his intoxicated uncle didn't slip-up and blow their secret. He and Al had agreed to tell Arthur and Francis about their relationship, and they would. They didn't need Allistor's help.

"Mathieu, would you help Papa in the kitchen, chéri?" said Francis, hands buried in oven-mitts. He pulled a big tray of maple cookies from the oven, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. Matt inhaled in delight. He knew that Francis had baked them especially for him, since everyone else found maple cookies too sweet, but Matt loved them. "Alfred's been learning to cook with me, but nobody has a sweet-tooth like mon Mathieu," Francis teased. "There's sugar-cookies and maple candy in that tin," he gestured. "And fudge— well, there _was_ fudge."

Matt took a candy and sucked on it. As he moved around the kitchen, handing Francis plates and spoons and ingredients, he tried not to get in the way. Al had always been Francis' cooking assistant, ever since he was young. He liked to cook, and, though Matt wasn't a terrible chef, he could admit that his brother was better; very inventive. Matt leaned over the island-counter, drumming his knuckles to the radio's beat, listening as Francis talked:

"I saw your friend Feliciano yesterday. He and his boyfriend—that big, blonde German boy—were ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Feliciano looked so happy; he's a sweet boy. They make a cute couple," Francis smiled. "Oh, and Eliza's boyfriend— the pianist? I saw his picture in the newspaper; what a talented boy. Have you heard from Lars lately? I always liked him," he added casually, glancing sideways at Matt. "If you want to visit him in the Netherlands, I'll buy you a plane ticket for Spring Break, chéri. He'd be so happy to see you."

Matt shifted. Francis had somehow got it into his head that Matt and Lars should be together. In retrospect, it was probably the reason why Matt had once thought the same thing; why he had tried so hard to see Lars as more than a friend, but it had failed. He had told Francis this several times—"we're just friends!"—but Francis didn't believe him. He thought that Matt was too quiet and subdued, and was certain that a wild trip to Europe would remedy this.

_If he only knew_, Matt thought, finding it funny. "Papa, if I did have someone in my life that made me feel... you know. If I was in love with someone, you'd be happy for me... wouldn't you? Regardless of who it was?"

"Of course I would. I want _you_ to be happy, chéri." Then, processing Matt's words, he stopped. "Mathieu, is there someone—? It's not that red-eyed German, is it?" he worried.

"Gil? No!" Matt laughed.

Fortunately he was saved from having to elaborate when Arthur stuck his head into the kitchen: "Mathew, _please_ come help entertain your bloody, sheep-fucking uncles. Allistor— I said _don't touch that_!"

* * *

Eh, Al? Why don't you let _me_ top this time?" Matt said giddily. It was after midnight and everyone was asleep—well, _almost_ everyone. Matt and Al were in the latter's bedroom, confident that neither of their parents would hear; Arthur had passed-out hours ago, and Francis slept like a rock when he drank. Matt snorted at the shocked look on Al's handsome, sun-kissed face. Straddling his brother, he pressed his forehead against Al's naked chest, laughing.

"Mattie—"

Matt kissed his chest, then looked up seductively. "What's wrong, Al? _Scared_? I won't hurt you," he said, brushing back a flyaway strand of wheat-blonde hair. "I'll take _good_ care of you."

Al smirked. "Fuck, you're totally hammered, aren't you?"

In reply, Matt kissed Al, sucking on his bottom lip. "Do I have to be hammered to want to fuck my lover?"

"I hope not," said Al, holding Matt's hips.

"Then why not let me?" Matt asked. Cheekily, he kissed Al's nose. "It only hurts for a little while." Cautiously, he slid his hand down Al's body, clutching his thighs; spreading his legs.

"Wait—" Al grabbed his bicep. He swallowed in uncertainty; heart pounding. He was uncomfortable lying on his back, relenting control; he had _always_ been the dominate one. _But I trust Mattie, and we're not virgins anymore_, he reasoned, but still felt nervous. _It's going to hurt_. He remembered the discomfort and pain on Matt's face the first time, but he also remembered the ecstasy _he_ had felt. _Matt should experience that_, he decided self-sacrificially. _And it's not like he hates it now_,_ and I _do_ want him. _Slowly he moved his hands up to clutch Matt's shoulders and nodded, signalling his readiness. "Just— go slow, okay?"

* * *

_Wow_," Matt breathed. "That feels... different. Are you okay, Al?" He smiled. "Is my big, strong brother crying?"

"Shut up!" Al snapped in embarrassment, wiping his face. He was still trying to catch his breath; legs shaking under the bed-sheets. He felt stiff—it hurt to move. "Fuck!" he gasped, trying to sit up. "That's... definitely different."

"You'll be alright," Matt said, kissing his cheek. "It's better once you get used to it. It actually feels _good_."

"I'll take your word for it."

Matt laid back, skin hot and flushed, and Al shifted sideways—wincing—and rested his cheek against Matt's chest. His breathing had regulated, chest rising and falling in a slow, sleepy rhythm. Al knew that pleasantly spent feeling that overwhelmed him after he and Matt had sex. _You're going to sleep well tonight_,_ Matt_, he thought. Matt's eyes were closed. Al said: "You know that thing you do with your hips? You do it when you're on top too. I like that."

Matt smiled. "Does that mean you want me to top again?" he asked softly. "Al—?"

"We should tell Dad and Papa tomorrow," he said, deliberately avoiding the question. "Cause if you're going to be doing _that_ again, I think they'll need a little warning. I think I bit my lip," he added, touching it with his tongue.

"Next time bite a pillow," Matt suggested, only half-joking. Al had seen Matt bite the bed-sheets on several occasions, and knowing that _he_ was the reason fired Al's blood. "You're right though, we'll tell them tomorrow." Then, as if that concluded the conversation, Matt drifted peacefully off to asleep. Al smiled and closed his eyes.

* * *

Good morning, Alfred. You're not usually up before Mathew," said Arthur. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. A half-eaten buttered biscuit—a_ scone_—was on a plate in front of him, beside a mug of black coffee.

Al shifted and tried not to grimace as he sat. "Matt's pretty tired," he said ambiguously.

Arthur snorted, flipping a page. "That's likely an understatement, he nearly drank his bodyweight last night. Serves him right if he's hungover all day."

"Yeah, _you_ wouldn't know anything about that, would you Dad?" Al mocked. "I wouldn't worry about Mattie though, he's pretty tough." _Ouch_! he clenched his teeth, trying to keep his face impassive. His body felt so tender; it ached in places he didn't want to think about. Arthur frowned:

"Alfred, why are you fidgeting? If you're going to vomit, please do it in the bin."

Al got up and made himself a few slices of jam-slathered toast, then got chastised for drinking orange juice strait from the carton. At eight o'clock Francis stumbled into the kitchen, looking haggard; only half-dressed—wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and boxer-shorts—and with several strands of his curling hair defying gravity. He draped himself sleepily over Arthur's back, resting his cheek on the Englishman's head, and closed his eyes. Arthur cast an annoyed look at Al, who shrugged. "Good morning, love," he said sarcastically. "Sleep well?"

Half-asleep, Francis mumbled: "Bonjour..." Then he yawned and pulled himself up. "Où est le Tylenol?"

"Upstairs loo," Arthur replied. Francis groaned and left, dragging his feet as he climbed back upstairs.

Al watched as Arthur rose habitually and refilled the coffeepot, readying it for Francis. He was trying to hide an indulgent smile, and Al thought: _They really are good together_._ Why have I never noticed that before_? Maybe you had to _be_ in love to recognize it. _I wonder if they were meant to be together_? "Hey, Dad?" he asked hesitantly. "Do you think you—" _and Papa were meant to be together_? He stopped, afraid of sounding like a love-struck romantic; Alfred Kirkland-Bonnefoi wasn't a pussy, after all. He reworded the question: "Do you believe in soul-mates?" _Oh yeah_, that_ sounds less romantic_, he berated himself, feeling embarrassed.

"Soul-mates?" Arthur repeated, taken off-guard. Al shrugged. If anyone believed in soul-mates it would be his superstitious father—right? "Honestly," said Arthur, "I've never given it much thought. I think people work at their relationships and that's why they last. It's about compromise, putting someone else's needs before yourself. Obviously some people are better suited to each other— who knows, maybe there_ has been_ divine intervention for those of us who aren't." He smiled, nodding upstairs. "Why so curious, Alfred?"

Before Al could reply, Matt dashed into the kitchen, looking refreshed despite his exorbitant consumption of liquor the previous night. I'm going for a run," he said, stretching his arms; tying back his hair. He pulled his hood up overhead, wearing his earphones, and called: "Be back in an hour!" Then he left. The front door slammed—

"Who's being _loud_?!" Francis groaned, wiping a hand down his face. He lifted the fresh coffeepot and poured himself a mug-full. He breathed in the heady scent, took a sip, and then sighed in contentment. "Merci, chéri."

Arthur glanced from Francis to Al, and smiled indicatively. "You're welcome, love."

* * *

Ready?" asked Al, clutching Matt's hand. Matt nodded resolutely. They walked into the kitchen: "Dad, Papa—"

"Just talk to them, they're your brothers!" Francis was holding the cordless telephone receiver out to Arthur, who was refusing to take it. "It's Christmas Eve, you should make-up with them and invite them here for New Years; the boys barely know their Uncles Patrick and Seamus—"

"Good! Because they're both gits!" Arthur insisted. "They probably just want money or something. Hear that, you bloody wankers?!" Arthur shouted at the receiver. "You're not getting a fucking penny out of me!"

Al looked skeptically at Matt. "Maybe we should just tell them later."

Matt nodded, pulling Al in retreat. "Good idea."

But later Allistor and Dylan returned with gifts, which put _the telling_ completely out of Al's mind: "Presents, yes!" The family talked and laughed and argued—Allistor and Francis liked to team-up against Arthur—and then ate until they all felt pleasantly ill. Al fell asleep lying on Matt's lap on the couch, lulled by the noise. He loved a full, lively house; it felt safe. In Al's experience, if your relatives—adoptive or otherwise—weren't arguing, laughing, and carrying on at each other's expense, there must be something wrong. It was a reassuring thing, as was Matt's body beneath his; absently fingering Al's hair. It was late when Matt finally nudged him awake, urging him upstairs to bed. Allistor and Dylan had fought for the "good guest room" and Dylan had won; the Welsh-born could be hellishly stubborn when he wanted to be. Arthur and Francis were talking quietly in the kitchen, out of sight. Al heard drunk Arthur clumsily say: "Je t'aime," and then kiss Francis. But Al wasn't paying attention. He let Matt guide him upstairs to bed and snuggled close to him, hugging him like a pillow. He fell asleep almost instantly—a happy smile on his face.

* * *

Matt was surfing the internet for Boxing Week sales, legs kicked over the couch's armrest, laptop propped against his knees; Al was lying on the floor on his stomach, a game-controller in his hands as he fired at virtual enemies. Francis poked his head into the room: "Do you boys have plans for New Year's Eve tomorrow night?"

Al paused his game. He counted on his fingers: "Laura went to the Netherlands for Christmas, and Lars is still there; Roderick is taking Eliza out, just the two of them; the Vargas family's restaurant is having a big celebration, so they're both working that night, and I assume that Antonio, Ludwig, and maybe Gil will be there. So— nothing," he concluded. "It's just Mattie and I this year. We'll probably stay in." Matt bit his lip, hiding a grin. "What're you doing?"

"Arthur and I are going out for the night. We're staying in a hotel," said Francis, unabashed. "I'll leave money so that you can order-in for supper, but you'll be alone all night. Is that alright?"

Al glanced at Matt. "Yeah, Papa. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." After Francis left, he added: "Should we tell them before they go?"

"And ruin their night? No," Matt shook his head. "Let them enjoy the last of 2013 before we totally destroy all of their hopes and dreams for 2014."

* * *

On 31 December, at seven o'clock sharp, Arthur and Francis left the house, wishing the boys a Happy New Year's. "It's almost 2014, are you excited, mes chéris? Have fun tonight," Francis waved. Arthur said: "Don't make a mess. There's take-away pizza in the kitchen." Then they left.

"Well, Al, what do you want to— _ah_!" Matt laughed as Al scooped him up, holding his thighs (either Al was stronger than he looked, or Matt weighed less than he thought). He wrapped his legs around Al's waist and placed his hands gently on either side of his neck, leaning down. "Your room or mine?" he asked, kissing him.

Tonight wasn't a secret. There was nobody here to hear them so—for once—they didn't have to keep quiet. Matt could yell as loudly as he wanted; he could laugh and shriek with giddiness. He could walk from Al's bedroom to the kitchen and back without dressing, unafraid that someone would see him. After working-up an appetite, he pulled on his boxer-shorts and Al's big t-shirt and together they devoured the pizza in front of the television, watching the live-footage from Times Square. "You've got cheese on your face," Al said, licking Matt's chin helpfully. "C'mon, Matt." Five-minutes before midnight, Al took Matt's hand and—grabbing their coats—dragged him outside onto the balcony.

Matt shivered, pulling his coat tightly around himself. It was snowing. "It's beautiful," Matt sighed, staring at the bright city lights. "I love the snow," he said, lifting his face to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

"I love... that you love it," Al teased, pulling Matt into a one-armed hug. Matt leaned into his brother's touch. Even from their high vantage-point they could hear the city celebrating, heralding in the New Year; it seemed to tense, holding its breath in anticipation as people starting counting. Al checked his cell-phone: thirty seconds to midnight. He faced Matt. "I've waited a whole year to do this properly." He took both of Matt's hands and squeezed. "Ready?"

"Three," said Matt. "Two," said Al. "One"—

Fireworks exploded overhead, bursting in bright white stars, filling the city with loud bangs and smoke. Matt kissed Al, just as tenderly as last year's first kiss had been; closing his eyes and squeezing Al's hands. Then Al dropped his hands to Matt's waist and pulled their bodies together, deepening the kiss. His lips sucked greedily, desperately, and he slipped his hot, slick tongue into Matt's mouth, moaning throatily. Matt ran his hands up Al's torso, beneath his coat; he held Al's neck, pressing their chests together. "Al," he said breathily, pulling his brother backwards into the house as he undressed him. He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it next to Al's on the floor, then, feeling his way down Al's supple body—having memorized the contours of his muscles—he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Al's boxer-shorts, dragging them down.

Al forced Matt onto the couch, pulling his t-shirt off overhead. He kissed him; long, loud, and wet, breaking a string of saliva when he pulled back. "I love you, Matt," he said, for the thousandth time. Before he could stop himself, he added: "I'm glad you love me too."

Matt smiled; half-surprised, half-amused. "Of course I love you, Al. Here," he said, reaching for him. His cold hand grasped Al's hot, throbbing cock and squeezed, guiding it. "Let me show you."

It was past-midnight when Matt awoke, shocked to find Al lying breathlessly on the floor beside him, grinning. He reached out and cupped Matt's cheek, swallowing; his chest rising and falling irregularly. "Welcome back, babe," he said. His taut skin was flushed healthy over his suntan, cornflower-blue eyes bright and sparkling. "Happy New Year."

Matt exhaled, feeling dizzy. "What happened?" he asked, surprised by the rawness of his own voice.

Al's grin grew in arrogance. "You blacked-out, just for a minute," he assured. "But you totally climaxed and blacked-out. Tell me I'm the best," he said giddily, leaning close. "Go on, Mattie— tell me how fucking good I am."

"I can't," Matt said. "How could I know if I blacked-out?"

Al's face contorted into an unsatisfied frown. "Oh, c'mon Mattie! That's just mean."

Matt laughed and kissed Al's cheek, then his lips. "Alright, love— then show me again."

* * *

**JANUARY 2014**

Al felt pleasantly drowsy. He was lying in his big double-bed, stark-naked between the bed-sheet and rumpled duvet, his head buried beneath a pillow. "Mm... Mattie?" he reached-out blindly, relieved when he felt Matt's familiar body beside him. Matt shifted sleepily, mumbling. Al lifted his head, blinking. The bedroom was dark, but: "Fuck, it's almost noon," he said, reading his alarm clock. "Mattie, wake up," he hit him. "Dad and Papa will be home soon."

Matt sat up and yawned, stretching his arms overhead. "They're probably already home."

Al paused, halfway into his trousers. "Don't you think they'd have poked their nosy heads into our rooms if they were already home? Dad doesn't let us sleep until noon; not unless we're deathly-ill."

Matt shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm going to shower," he said lazily, then paused in the doorframe. He cocked his pale-blonde head and smiled enticingly: "Want to come with me?"

"You're horrible," Al replied flatly, feeling desire stir in his stomach. But they couldn't fuck as long as Arthur and Francis were home. _Not until we tell them_,_ at least_. _And probably not even then_; _it'd be too weird_. Matt shrugged and left, taking his sinfully gorgeous body with him. However, he returned a minute later holding a note:

BE BACK IN AN HOUR. The time was scrawled beside it—Arthur was meticulous—clocked fifteen minutes ago.

"They'll be back in forty-five minutes," Matt mused, dangling the note; feigning innocence. "What could we possibly do in forty-five minutes— twice?"

Al didn't need prompting. He stalked toward Matt and grabbed him, kissing his neck; Matt laughed. "Wait," he said, detaching himself. He headed for the parlour. "I left the— ah, Al!" Al tackled Matt, throwing him down onto the couch; kissing and tickling him. Matt gasped: "Al, I can't— _O-oh_! _Ah-Al_!" Al loved the heady, breathless sound of his name on his lover's ravished lips; loved the feel of Matt's flushed skin; loved the look of his beautiful face, violet eyes shut and lips parted in an erotic O. Al toyed with his brother for a minute. He squeezed his cock between his lips, egged on by Matt's soft whines, but he stopped before climax; watching him writhe. "_Al_—" Matt pleaded weakly. And, since Matt asked _so nicely_, Al obliged. He thrust his throbbing cock deep into his brother's body and moaned loudly. Hard and fast: "_Ah_, _fuck_!" he gasped, clenching Matt's hips. It felt so good; everything else disappeared. There was only he and "_Mattie_,_ I-I'm—_" Matt yelled in climax; a strangled sound that urged Al over the edge: "AH!"

Matt hugged Al, tangled together like some ancient, multi-limbed beast. Al kissed his shoulder, tasting salty sweat; relaxing against his brother's embrace.

Suddenly, Matt tensed. "Al," he whispered in terror. And then—

"_Francis_!" Arthur yelled.

Al whipped around, coming face-to-face with his wide-eyed father. His blood went cold. He held his breath, mind racing for something—anything!—to say. _Oh fuck— fuck_,_ fuck_, _fuck_! _For fuck's sake_,_ say something_! his brain screamed, but words failed him. In reflex he hugged Matt closer, shielding him. Like frightened prey, he stared at Arthur. Vaguely he noticed the brown-paper bag he had dropped, milk and egg yolk oozing over the hardwood floor.

"Francis," Arthur repeated, sounding choked, "could you come here please— _now_?!"

"What is it, cher?" said the Frenchman, hurrying in. "What's wrong—" He stopped beside the Englishman; a wine bottle fell from his hand. It seemed to happen very slowly, to Al's paralyzed brain. He saw the transformation of Francis' expression into shock. "W-what are you—?" He swallowed; mortified. "You can't be— but you— you're—"

"_Brothers_!" Arthur snapped. In panic, he suddenly surged forward and grabbed Al's forearm, yanking him roughly off of Matt, which provoked a yelp; pulling Al's flaccid cock from Matt's body. Arthur immediately let go in alarm, his face reddening in anger and embarrassment. To mask his mistake, he snatched the pillow Matt was using to hide his face and fired it at Al. "Adopted or not, you're still brothers. You can't be doing this. I mean... I just can't believe you're doing _this_," he finished weakly.

Francis covered his mouth, still staring. Quietly, he said: "You're seventeen-years-old; we've raised you together for seventeen years. How long have you been—?"

Al looked guiltily at Matt. Matt swallowed. Holding the pillow, Al stepped forward. Delicately, he began: "This isn't how we wanted you to find out— obviously," he added, blushing. _This is so embarrassing_! _They're looking at us like we've done something horrible_, just like Matt was afraid of. Feeling protective, he glanced at Matt, who was wide-eyed and curled-up on the couch, holding his knees. _It's alright_,_ Mattie. I'm going to fix this_. Bravely he faced his parents, and bluntly said: "Matt and I are together. We've been together since last January, but it's okay because we're not related by blood. And we're in love," he finished, holding his chin up.

His confession did not, however, have the desired effect:

Francis sucked in his breath. Arthur made a strangled noise, and repeated: "_It's okay_? Did you really just say _it's okay_?! This is _not_ okay!" he shrieked in disbelief.

Francis grabbed his lover's shoulder. "Calm down, chéri. This is certainly... abnormal," he said—a rather kind description, "but let's give the boys a chance to explain why they... to explain _this_," he gestured between them. "Is this what you meant when you asked me about love?" he asked Matt. "Yes of course it must've been," he answered his own question, "if you've really been together for over a year..."

Arthur pursed his lips and looked away. "Get dressed," he said quietly. "Then we're going to talk about what you've been doing, presumably all year. And why it's most certainly _not_ okay."

Al looked at Francis for support, but he only nodded and wordlessly followed Arthur into the kitchen. Al fell back onto the couch beside Matt, feeling shaken. "This really isn't going to be pretty," he said, trying to shrug-off his discomfort; but his voice cracked. "Mattie? Hey, it's going to be okay," Al reached for him. But Matt evaded his hand.

"It's probably better if you don't touch me," he said softly. Then he stood and pulled on his clothes: a t-shirt and plaid boxer-shorts. Al watched him, reminded of a statue that had come to life; Matt's eyes looked thoughtful and afraid, but he didn't speak. Al dressed and tried to smile, but Matt seemed to ignore him.

Al felt hurt. _We should be facing them together_,_ Mattie_. _Unafraid_. Bravely, he sucked in a calming breath and followed Matt—his brother and lover—into the kitchen.

* * *

Do you want a cuppa?" Arthur asked, pouring tea. He indicated the table, where Francis was waiting; blue eyes staring vacantly, trying to comprehend what he had witnessed. "Sit down boys."

Al started to sit, but Matt said: "No."

Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow, glancing at Francis, who blinked. "Alright," he said. Deliberately he placed the teacup on the table and faced his teenage sons. "You're both seventeen, I suppose we can speak like adults. I certainly hope so anyway, since you've both made the very _adult_ decision to be together—"

"Dad," Matt interrupted brazenly. "Before you get all condescending, can I ask you something?" He looked between Arthur and Francis, speaking to them both: "Did you ever expect to fall in love with each other?"

Francis opened-and-closed his mouth; then licked his lips. Arthur hesitated; speechless. Matt continued:

"Honestly, I never expected to fall in love with Al, my brother. If you had asked me four-years-ago I would've thought you were mad. But that's exactly what's happened. I tried not to at first, but—" Helplessly Matt shrugged. "I couldn't stop. If I could choose not to love him, I might... but that's exactly why I know it's real love, because I can't. I _can't_ not feel this way. I _can't_ not love him." He swallowed. Al saw unshed tears in Matt's violet eyes. "I know you understand, Dad, Papa. We don't always get to choose who we fall in love with. And I"—he took Al's hand—"love Al."

Al felt dazed, certain that his face reflected the same shock his parents felt. Speechlessly he squeezed Matt's hand in agreement and smiled. "Yeah," he said ineloquently. "And I'm in love Matt. Sorry," he added, shrugging. "But that's not ever going to change. We belong together," he smiled, quoting Matt.

A long, tense silence stretched as the two generations stared challengingly at each other in awe. Al could hear the street's din outside, far below them; he could hear the clock ticking. Finally, Matt interrupted:

"Please don't be angry; we're not doing any of this to hurt you," Matt promised. "This is a good thing."

Francis recovered first: "Love usually is," he said habitually. Standing, he gave the boys a weary smile. "Love, as beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, and just because we don't always understand doesn't mean we should judge—"

"Stop spouting rubbish," Arthur said, though his tongue had lost its bite. He wiped his face with his hands and sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I'm just having a little trouble absorbing this," he admitted. "Alfred, Mathew, I'm not angry. And I can't pretend that I don't understand your feelings"—he glanced quickly at Francis, then back—"or, now that I think of it, your recent obsession with soul-mates," he stared pointedly at them. He licked his lips. "It sounds to me like you've put a lot of thought into this, and, regardless of our feelings, I think you're old enough to know your own hearts. It's strange for us, no doubt," he said, "but we're your parents. Since the day we brought you both home, your happiness is all we've ever wanted. And if being together makes you happy, then Francis and I feeling weird about it shouldn't matter."

In disbelief, Al's lips curled into a grateful smile. "Honestly, Dad, it doesn't matter," he said, fighting the urge to laugh; he felt _so_ relieved! Happily, he squeezed Matt's hand.

Arthur rolled his forest-green eyes, and muttered: "Of course not." Francis pursed his lips, stifling a chuckle.

Matt blinked tears from his eyes, and said: "Thank-you for understanding."


	12. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BROTHERLY LOVE**

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

**NEW YORK CITY**

**JUNE 2014**

Is this a family supper, or a double-date?" Allistor joked, nodding to the foursome: Arthur and Francis; Al and Matt.

Arthur glared at him, unimpressed. "Piss-off, Allistor. I still can't believe you knew about them"—he pointed to Al and Matt—"and you didn't tell us, you bloody wanker!"

"Calme, chéri," Francis said, touching Arthur's bicep. "Let's not ruin tonight. Mes bébés have graduated!" he gushed proudly, then repeated to the maitre d': "My boys both graduated high-school."

The maitre d' smiled in exasperation. He led the party of six—Dylan joined them—to a private table in the restaurant's lounge. They were accompanied almost immediately by Feliciano, who bounced forward in a waiter's uniform, smiling exuberantly. Since graduation, he and Lovino had started working at their family's Italian restaurant fulltime. "Ciao!" he said, distributing menus. He wrapped Matt in a one-armed hug: "I'm so glad you're home, Matt. Padre let me bake something special, just for you," he winked. "Hiya, Lovino!" He waved to his older brother, who was grudgingly taking orders a few tables away. "Fratello!"

Lovino smiled, waving off Feliciano. "Hi guys," he said to the Kirkland-Bonnefoi's. "Happy Graduation."

"Thanks," said Matt. Al was searching the menu for his favourite dishes, making recommendations to his two British uncles. Arthur—who would be paying for tonight's celebratory meal—denied several choices, but Francis very politely told him—in French, so as not to make a scene—to remove the stick from his ass and enjoy himself. "This is a special night. Order whatever you want, boys," he said, smiling indulgently.

Green-flagged, they ordered a table-full of food. They toasted to Al and Matt's accomplishments, and visited briefly with the Italians as they worked. Al licked tomato sauce off of Matt's finger, laughing at Arthur's mortification: "We're in _public_!" Francis forked an olive and held it out to Arthur in distraction: "Try this, mon chéri. The seasoning is merveilleux!" For dessert, Feliciano presented a beautifully decorated plate of tiramisu, which he put between Al and Matt. Al's eyes lit up in delight; Matt took a generous spoonful. "This is _amazing_, Feli!" he complimented.

Feliciano bowed in thanks. "Grazie." Then he leaned forward in secret, and said: "Guess what? I heard today that I've been accepted to culinary school! I start in September."

"That's great!" Matt congratulated him. Al grinned through a mouthful of tiramisu, showing a thumbs-up.

"Speaking of school," said Arthur, after Feliciano left. "I know you've only just graduated high-school, but have either of you given much thought about where you want to go to University?"

"Actually," said Matt, licking his spoon clean. "I was looking at McGill University, in Montréal." Sheepishly he looked at Al. McGill would separate them for another four to five years, depending on Matt's plans. He expected a fight. Or at least an argument from his brother, whose opinion he felt very susceptible to, undecided as he was. _Please don't be upset_;_ please don't try to change my mind_, he worried. To his astonishment, however, Al nodded and said:

"McGill's a good school."

"You're not... upset?" Matt asked, glancing at his parents, who stayed unhelpfully silent. Arthur shrugged in feigned indifference: _Don't look at us_,_ it's your choice and you're old enough to make it_. "It means another few years apart before we can be together... like, _really_ together," he added, blushing.

"Yeah," Al agreed. Unabashed, he took Matt's hand and pressed his knuckles to his lips. "But something tells me that we'll be just fine. You could go to Australia for all the difference it'll make now, Matt. And do you know why?" He smiled sincerely. "Cause we belong together, bro. And that won't change. It's you and me forever— you promised."

"Yes," Matt nodded, feeling confident—feeling genuine happiness. "You're right, Al. I did."

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


End file.
